Taller Than Trees

By Roger Young

Southern Rhodesia, Central Africa: March, 1914.

A trooper of police, sent to contain a lawless settlement near Bulawayo, the countrys largest city, told on his arrival there that all the violence was caused by government restrictions (not true) took them at their word and made a single, simple rule, No one may initiate the use of force, including me simple, because to him it was no more than a policemans job. Common Law would be upheld, he said (robbery, rape, fraud etc.): Statute Law (restrictions) wouldnt.

If they obeyed it, so would he: that was the deal, and his grim reputation needed only to be tested once. After this he withdrew and let them all get on with their affairs.

He was thought to be from the American Far West; and his rule being based upon a moral principle, initiating force is wrong, which cant be circumvented by the Law, police, politics, or even at the will of a majority, with taxes and legislation set aside and everything done willy-nilly by agreement, not by vote, sure enough and right away Queenstown became like one in the American Far West: a free society.

But with this difference: no force eliminated anything to do with government.

Question: But how can a society exist, let alone succeed, without a government?
Answer: This is what the book is all about.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477286548

Roger Young

The author served with the police force concerned in the 1950s and 1960s. He presently lives in Europe.

Book preview

Taller than Trees

Book One

Roger Young

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© 2012 by Roger Young. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 09/14/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8655-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8654-8 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

References:   Pierre Berton: The Last Great Gold Rush.

                     T. V. Bulpin: The Ivory Trail.

                     The Bulawayo Chronicle, 1914.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Prologue

The Patrol

Interlude (One)

Interlude (Two)

Queenstown

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

Day Four

Day Five

Day Six

To my daughter Jocelyn, with much love.

BOOK ONE

TALLER THAN TREES

An Historical Novel

By

Roger Young

‘When Earth and Air and Fire and Water meet, then look what shall come forth! – a storm so great that everywhere it touches shall be changed forever.’

The Tshaya-Matambo

SOUTHERN RHODESIA

CENTRAL AFRICA

1913

rhodesiaudimap_5_edited.jpg

FOREWORD

As this is a police story, some background of the Force concerned, the British South Africa Police, is relevant.

In 1890, when Southern Rhodesia was colonised (by the BSA Company of Cecil Rhodes), it was administered from London through the British High Commissioner in Cape Town. The body responsible for law and order, to prevent war among the tribes and to protect the settlers from attack, was its own police force: the BSA Company’s Police, founded the year before with 500 men. It dropped the ‘Company’s’, becoming the British South Africa Police, in 1896.

Its first ten years saw it mostly militarily engaged (Matabele War of ’93, Jameson Raid of ’95, Matabele and Mashona Rebellions of ’95 and ’96, and South African War of 1900) and its identity almost lost among its different roles, complicated by the formation in 1903 of a second force for duty in the towns: the Southern Rhodesia Constabulary (SRC), run separately from Salisbury, the country’s capital.

In 1909, control of the BSAP was also transferred to Salisbury, the two forces amalgamated, and by September 1913, when this account begins, it was a single unit, divided only into Town Police and District Troops.

Amalgamated, maybe; but friction still existed, probably because they had been formed at different times for different reasons, and what followed was the natural rivalry of men engaged in similar jobs.

Certainly there was a difference in the individuals, for while the District Troops, based on the military system of the original Company’s Police, recruited adventurous and self-reliant young men from England’s Public Schools, able to ride and shoot and to take care of themselves in the wild, they were not true lawmen. The Town Police, however, were – or so they claimed. Older, bigger, more imposing, many having served in other forces previously, they regarded themselves as ‘real’ police, with a proper knowledge of law, criminal procedure and evidence, and the District force as little more than uniformed cowboys.

The uniforms, too, were different, and emphasised the contrast: dark-blue serge for the prosaic Town policeman, with a white helmet for daytime and a white-topped cap for night; and a khaki tunic, breeches, puttees, bandolier and a smasher hat for the District trooper, which, despite his generally scruffier appearance (or perhaps because of it), contrived to give to his ensemble a romance that possibly the other lacked.

Hence four years had seen small rapprochement: now the wheel was turning yet again. The casualty this time was the Troops, their hallowed system to be reorganised, in fact phased out to coincide with magisterial, not military requirements. The first to go was ‘A’ Troop in Mashonaland, the north; from September onwards it would be the turn of Matabeleland, in the south.

But not willingly: the Troops still saw themselves as when conceived, as mounted infantry, a tradition grudgingly relinquished. But it was peace-time now, and their job had changed: they were true police – District Police was their new name – and so their structure must conform.

Importantly: except for the Southern Rhodesia Volunteers (SRV), a reserve, non-active body, the BSA Police was the only armed force in the country. There was no standing army.

Also important: though Rhodesia’s origins were British, its Common Law was South African, which was Roman-Dutch.

RY

PROLOGUE

The best in life begins with a surprise: so does the worst. You meet an old friend unexpectedly; he takes you for a drink; you meet another, who invites you to a next-door party; you accept…

With 80 beds, Bulawayo’s Grand Hotel was the largest in the town. Its lounge, disposed to suit the evening’s entertainment, was drape-drawn, the damask walls, with hunting trophies to divide the photographs from the engravings, were ranged with chairs that rounded off three corners to protect their ornamental fern cascades. The fourth, enclosing an upright piano pounded by a slim young man in District uniform, was the centre of a group of mixed civilians and khaki-clad police, drinking and raucously enjoying the music.

The banquet-board had been set back, its surface bare except for liquor bottles: glasses twinkled on the armchair-tables where other guests reclined, beating time or trying to converse above the noise. A waiter entered with a tray of glasses…

Warily, the visitor looked round. When Anglo Saxons drank to celebrate, their readiness for violence was concealed; then, as the quantities went down, one saw the barbarian beginning to emerge…

He was presented to his host, a corporal of the same police whom he knew slightly: a stocky man in similar khaki, with fair, straight hair and pendant blond moustache, who, shaking hands with little interest, resumed his solitary post against the mantelpiece and scowling study of an empty glass. Not a pleasant-looking man: there was something about him that made one want to take exception – and something else that warned one not to.

He met the other guests, whom he knew better, and was welcomed to the gathering, which was smoky, male, relaxed, and, with the exception of their host perhaps, convivial…

Until it all started to go wrong.

The corporal of the Town Police let the doors behind him close. As he moved towards the centre of the room and its occupants became aware of him, their hubbub died: the piano, last to notice, faltered in mid-bar and ceased, irresolute. Here’s trouble! muttered somebody – and wasn’t wrong, for the stranger was in uniform and cap, with striped armband, and wore collar-dogs and numerals.

He stopped before the corporal of the District Police.

What d’ you want?

The second, watching him advance, did not change stance and spoke peremptorily, as to one inferior.

Party’s over, said the Town man. Time to go.

Over? one of the civilians laughed. Why, it’s only just begun!

They’re on patrol tomorrow…

Why not join us? Come on, have a drink!

The Town policeman disregarded them, addressing his compeer against the mantelpiece.

You’re in charge here. I’m telling you to break it up. It’s after hours. You know the rules.

The accent was as misplaced as the uniform, and the corporal in khaki straightened up as comprehension dawned; at the same time a bulky, bearded civvy heaved himself upright.

Wowser, eh? he rumbled, rolling up his sleeves, Not to worry: we’ll take care of him!

The District corporal jerked his head. Keep out of this! He looked round as the man sank back. Number One Section?

Slowly the trooper at the piano stood; carefully another three in undress District uniform put down their glasses and commenced buttoning their tunics. The guests, including other District police, exchanged uneasy glances and began to drift aside.

The corporal tossed his glass into a vacant chair, a gesture in itself a surrogate for violence, and turned with the beginnings of an icy smile.

So, he wants to send us home, does he? and that bantering tone was as obvious a prelude to unpleasantness. Town Police, come to pack its worthy citizens off to bed, eh? Well, well…

That’ll do! Harsh and sudden came the interruption. This is a hotel: people pay for, and expect to get some sleep. You’ve five minutes to clear out of here and back to barracks. Now get going!

The smile dropped: District took a swift step forward.

Don’t talk like that to me!

The last of the invited guests had been an interested spectator: now he felt the gnawings of alarm. The District corporal looked as hard as nails, the kind who liked a rough-house and could well be in the mood for one; but not this time! Were he averagely built, the Town man would have been considered big; but he was head and shoulders more. The dark-blue tunic, without belt, hung straight, straining a little at the sides, and his legs, unlike most tall men, carried his weight easily: his hands, loose held and motionless, were vast.

Appreciated, yes, it was; but while others here might shrug and start to leave, resigned to the rules of the occasion, the faces of the khaki- five were tense and set, almost curious, as if about to test a thing unknown.

This man in blue, it seemed, possessed a reputation.

Yet not his past or presence was it which gave warning that it might be merited, but in his eyes and his expression: the watchful competence of one much older, well acquainted with such situations, who’d dealt with them too many times to doubt the outcome; and who moreover, on duty and in uniform, unluckily for them, was in the right while they were not.

Measured, massive, dark-complexioned, in the deepening silence the most recent guest was conscious that his churlish host was on the point of going in some way above his head.

But if the District corporal saw the signs, the signs that any man should see, he disregarded them. Obviously, he disliked parties, and probably the whole idea of this patrol. He certainly disliked Town policemen; and this one in particular, made worse by being ordered home by him…

Also, he was drunk and out for trouble.

Deliberately, he reached and placed a hand against the other’s chest.

"You … are leaving," he said, and gave a short, hard push.

The Town man took a step back and he followed, speaking slowly and between his teeth: "You … will get out of here, now, back to your Charge Office, and chuck your weight round there! He pushed again, and the man with the ‘On Duty’ arm-band took another backward step. And in future: Keep your distance, keep your place, and keep clear of any District man you meet! A third, more violent shove. Understand!"

The Town policeman’s hands shot up and fastened on the other’s wrist: a savage jerk: he side-stepped as the body flailed past; then twice whirling him full-circle at the length of his extended arms, released him opposite the double doors.

The District corporal seemed to fly: his back and shoulders struck the centre with a crash that shook the building: as the woodwork splintered, folding in on top of him, he disappeared.

Silence: one of shock. Disbelievingly, onlookers regarded the unstirring pyramid of lumber from which a pair of boots protruded. But only for a moment: then, with a concerted howl of rage, the remaining four of No 1 Section hurled themselves upon the enemy.

Not everything in Life begins with a surprise: Death can, too, which some accept because of their belief in Destiny. But not all do; and the latest guest looked on with deep misgiving.

*   *   *

THE PATROL

This arrived yesterday from Police Headquarters in Pretoria, said the Commissioner, holding up a piece of paper. It is to advise us that the settlement known as ‘Crooks Corner’ has been established as definitely south of the Limpopo River: how far east or west is not recorded. Thus and so, in whichever other country it may lie, he put it down, it isn’t ours; for which we may be truly grateful.

Amen…

How far south of the Limpopo, sir? a youthful voice enquired.

Two or three miles, I understand: not far enough. The letter also states that resulting from the current drive on crime by Johannesburg’s police, among others two gazetted criminals, Patrick and Terence McKinley, are reported to have taken refuge there; and to warn us it is not unlikely they will cross the river into this country, where it is believed they have associates. Which brings me, he moved a second typewritten sheet, covering the first, to another but related matter, still outstanding. He tapped it. Jan van Rooyen.

Someone chuckled.

Who? – the young staff officer again. Others supplied him from points along the table.

Will o’ the Wisp…

Gentleman Jim…

They seek him here, they seek him there…

At Meikles, too, when he’s in town!

Oh, nonsense: the man’s a common bandit!

The O/C Matabeleland will furnish you with details, the Commissioner said dryly, since both are his misfortune.

Heads turned, and there was silence as Kincaid finished tamping-down his pipe. He glanced without favour at the callow appointee of the Company’s Administration, he of the ignorance, and questions.

Jan Gysbert Dolf van Rooyen.

He struck a match and watched it flare. Afrikaner-Dutch. Born Maritzburg, July of ’68. English education. Farms in the Northern Transvaal. Believed married to an Englishwoman, name unknown. Fought with Smuts and de la Rey’s commandos in the war. Expert horseman, crack shot, linguist…

Does he have a criminal record?

He poaches ivory, he trades in gold, he smuggles anything and everything; he even does a bit of blackbirding, all quite successful, too. But to answer your question: no, he doesn’t have a record.

Has he ever been arrested?

The major reacted neither to the persistence of his questioner nor to the rising mirth of his colleagues. He shook his head.

You’re talking of an area some thirty thousand square miles, much of it still unexplored. He regarded the other through a haze of smoke. Van Rooyen’s not a fool. He has money, friends, he’s quick off the mark, he knows the bush; and we don’t even have a real description.

What is his connection with Crooks Corner, sir?

He owns it, said someone, facetiously.

But I thought he stayed at Meikles!

Why not? He owns that too…

He operates down there, of course…

I want him apprehended. The Colonel’s voice was frigid and the laughter ceased. "I want that area patrolled as far as the Limpopo, and the McKinleys, and anybody else associated with Crooks Corner, properly deterred from ever crossing it, without, and I must emphasise this, doing so ourselves."

His attention was directed at the Bulawayan.

Van Rooyen, if he’s in the country, is to be brought in for questioning. He has an accomplice, Cecil Barnard, also from Crooks Corner. Bring him in, too. You can use the Mine Recruitment Regulations: they come into force in two weeks’ time. He made a note. My compliments to Captain Murray: ‘K’ Troop will supply the men. Their last patrol, he added.

Very good, sir. But why are those two so important? It’s not as though they’re dangerous.

The Colonel hesitated, tapping the letter with his pencil.

I don’t know, he said at last. It’s not the Company. This is from the office of the Resident Commissioner: the Imperial Government. Someone up there seems to want him.

The twelve officers present at the conference were looking at Kincaid. One gave a low whistle.

*   *   *

Going home…

John Wallis Tyrrell-Kincaid, major, Officer Commanding BSA Police Matabeleland Province, leaned back against the cushions of the First Class railway carriage. Heany Junction: seventeen miles to go…

Truthfully, he didn’t care for Salisbury. Few Bulawayans did. Though clean and organised, though life was leisurely, though the newly-planted jacarandas, awakened by the fleeting highveld spring suffused the milder air with an elusive perfume, it was still and unmistakably a town of government and also redolent of all its sins: indifference, inertia, complacency and sloth. They didn’t have to be efficient or hard-working; and though, also truthfully, Rhodesia was better managed by its civil service than other colonies of his acquaintance, if for no more reason than, as employees of a commercial company it was obliged to show a profit, Salisbury, notwithstanding, wasn’t Bulawayo, or even close.

Especially annoying was their attitude towards him personally: one of well- bred horror, as though coming from a mere 300 miles away made him a wild man from the jungle. Snobbery-jobbery he called it, when he couldn’t think of worse. They didn’t even look as nice as Bulawayans…

Police society, of course, did not have this resentment. They made it bearable, the Commissioner in particular: a wife attentive, a well-run household, and good cooking; and in the evenings comradeship and reminiscence, for they were friends as well as colleagues, messing, serving, campaigning together as long as a quarter of a century ago.

The first few days were interesting, also due to the Commissioner. Soon after his appointment, in addition to many reformatory measures, he had initiated regular, three-monthly meetings, ‘Quarterlies’, where matters claiming the attention of his various officers commanding which they considered could affect Rhodesia’s new and growing population, 25,000 whites, half a million blacks, were tabled and discussed before being sent to the Executive Council for debate and such action as thought fit.

It was a good approach, for the Police were everywhere in touch, in town, district, farm and mine; and 1913, and administration increasing in complexity, more apt to the informed, disinterested view on legislation (which they would have to implement) than any other government department.

(Though a pity it wasn’t in reverse, he mused: those Mine Recruitment Regs, referred to by the Colonel, were meddlesome, unnecessary, introduced by the Company itself without reference to Police, and the sort of interference that caused more trouble than they solved).

Police issues had also to be dealt with: policy, duties and procedure, promotion and disciplinary boards, recruitment, postings, transfers, equipment, location and boundaries of stations, crime trends and appropriate measures: all the quotidian affairs of a regiment-sized, para-military force of 550 Europeans, 600 Native, in a territory twice the size of England.

It was necessary, and often stimulating; for Kincaid was aware that the initial stages of a country’s development relied heavily on its police, their efficiency and probity, their sense of fairness, their imagination; and he liked the responsibility, the knowledge that each decision reached could influence, even radically, the country’s future course. They had to be right, the officers, all the time, and it lent immediacy to the proceedings which he also liked.

He liked it, too, for its own sake. He was not a man of action, rather one of contemplation, reticence, assuming leadership naturally enough, but quietly, without the dash and style of the Colonel, nor the following.

Indeed, he did not wish it. To him, the just administration of the law and the work of the police were ends in themselves, and, since the death of his wife two years ago, prepossessive. Advancement or recognition did not mean to him what it once had; which was why, he supposed, since their service with the 7th Hussars when they started out as subalterns together, the Colonel was now that much farther on. Not that he was critical. On the contrary he admired him for qualities that he himself did not possess, and had a deep personal liking for him, one he knew to be returned.

But when the purpose of the Quarterly had been accomplished, the parades and parties following and which the Colonel so enjoyed (and did rather well) began to pall. Captain Tomlinson, his 2 i/c, was away visiting out-stations; Lieutenant Brundell of the CID, in his manner so primus inter pares, such a Triton among minnows, that it was better that they stayed with their arcane pursuits and let the rest of them get on with all the work; and Lieutenant Oldknow, O/C Town, though capable, was junior; and Kincaid disliked a vacuum in command. He fretted to get back to work, to Bulawayo: home.

It was a large responsibility. Matabeleland was the roughest, toughest, most productive, competitive and turbulent section of the Colony, also the largest; and Bulawayo, its centre, a city of 5,000 Europeans, was appreciably bigger than the nation’s capital. Its indigenous population was pure warrior, and, though defeated soundly, sometimes gave him the uneasy feeling was only resting on its spears; and its non-indigenous gave him much the same impression.

This trip had been a quiet one, routine. Few matters raised had been of moment: reorganising of the Troops had gone without a hitch; and discussion tended rather towards Europe and the restless building-up of power among the nations, whether it was prelude to another war (or even possible: Good God, the Germans were more their race and culture than any other!) and if so the effect on Rhodesia and what the response of its police should be.

He noticed that the younger officers still used the word ‘police’, not ‘army’, which they also were, and hoped (to hell) they understood the difference for it wasn’t always plain. Both dealt with threats against their population, which from their position on the ground were threats, and their dual requirement was that they contain them.

But while the soldier did so simply, with each situation as it happened, reference only to the orders of superiors, a policeman’s was to law and to the civil rights of individuals, which did not concern an army man at all. Moreover, the police were permanent, as much in order to contain the threat of crime as to assist in any kind of an emergency – which must include the presence of those army men.

It always brought to mind the death of Archimedes, the greatest scientist of the Classic era, killed in his laboratory in Syracuse by a common soldier during a Roman invasion some 200 BC: an old man working at his mathematics, seized and run through by a young man in a uniform, and all that that implied: the truly great despatched by a casual sword-thrust from the truly small, who stood with dripping blade and at the orders of his government, saying vacantly, ‘I’m only doing my duty!’

Again, it emphasised the difference between the military and the police. Essentially the two were opposites; which was why it was the worst fault of a policeman to confuse or to equate their roles, and the greatest danger should anyone with power attempt to do so.

[Though he still preferred their use of military titles. ‘Major’, now strictly courtesy, he maintained was less confusing and conveyed more information to the public, whom it was intended to inform, than ‘Chief Inspector’, which he was till recently, or ‘Assistant Commissioner’, which he was at present (and ‘Assistant District Superintendent’ for a humble first lieutenant was mere grandiloquence). If mobilisation were ordered, which could happen any time, he would revert to military rank anyway; so, for the sake of clarity and convenience (also courtesy) he kept his title, as did all the officers except the Commissioner, whom they still called ‘Colonel’, although never in his presence.]

He looked through the dusty, rain-streaked window. Cement, Marvel, Queenstown… He pulled a face: in days gone by one would have crossed oneself while passing Queenstown; and there was Ntabazinduna, that long and flat-topped mountain away off on the other side. Seven miles to go; then Old Nick, Cold Storage…

The last few sidings before Bulawayo clanged and rattled by.

Crooks Corner … and van Rooyen.

He grunted. The two were not connected necessarily (the South Africans were misinformed: Crooks Corner was an area: the settlement, its ‘capital’, was properly called Makuleke). A notorious gallery of rogues who for years had plagued the south-east corner of his province, deep in lowveld country where the three territories, Rhodesia, South Africa and Mozambique, all joined, Crooks Corner / Makuleke was a problem in another sense (or had been, prior to that letter from the SAC) in that, because of its location, no one in authority knew really where it was; for the inhabitants had the irritating habit of loading the heavy concrete boundary-beacon on a cart and moving it to an entirely different site whenever said authority was in the offing; thus, when eventually it did arrive it found itself on foreign soil and unable to carry out its duties Those hardy few who tried were righteously and vigorously resisted, and did not persist.

It was a nuisance more than anything – should in fact have been attended to by Salisbury years ago, and he’d been considering an expedition there to settle matters thoroughly and only short of an excuse…

Now he had one: the McKinley brothers, wanted for robbery and murder on the Rand, who, with two associates were understood to be in Makuleke and who might decide to raid across the border.

And the Commissioner was right: they should be properly deterred, for apart from crimes they would undoubtedly commit and the suffering visited upon the local people, the time and work their apprehension would entail, the cost, always of importance to a chartered company – and final failure anyway, since all they had to do was nip back across the river, didn’t bear reflection. Especially the cost…

Van Rooyen … was van Rooyen: there was little to add to what he’d told the conference. No record of him ever having been in Makuleke; although Cecil Barnard, a fellow Dutchman and alleged confederate, also blackbirder and poacher, was known to be there frequently.

‘Use Mine Recruitment Regulations’: he shook his head. This Act, the so-called ‘Law of the 22nd Parallel’, concerned native labour for the gold mines of Johannesburg; which found him critical, smelling as it did of politics…

‘My compliments to Captain Murray: ‘K’ Troop will provide…’

Here, Kincaid winced outright. Such patrol was rightfully ‘G’ Troop’s, headquartered at Gwanda in the centre south; but situated in the thick of mining country, whose mines required constant supervision, and the rest of Captain Spain’s men deployed along the Tuli border on cattle-cordon against rinderpest, Coast Fever and pneumonia, ‘G’ Troop was fully extended. ‘L’ Troop at Fort Usher was too small. ‘K’ Troop, at Bulawayo, was the logical alternative…

But ‘K’ Troop was responsible for northern Matabeleland, outside the range of this patrol; and Kincaid knew that Captain Murray, its peppery o/c – not present at the conference, would take exception to being ordered otherwise.

He sighed. Perhaps it was as well the break-up of the Troop system was occurring now: he could start the process in his own province with a bang (though he’d have preferred a more subdued beginning, were it possible).

He glanced out through the glass again: Suburbs, Eveline School for Girls, Selborne Avenue, they were running parallel with Borrow Street; Milton School for Boys…

Coming home.

Cautiously, noisily, the train circled the southern edge of town. Clacking over the final intersection, then between the low Makaha Hills, passing the Volunteer rifle range and the locomotive sheds, it braked, coaches banging, whistle squealing, to commence entry of the long, long station.

A last, convulsive halt: as the crowds awaiting it surged forward, Kincaid came slowly and a little stiffly to his feet.

He paused awhile, holding fast the baggage rack, adjusting to the change of pace; then reaching for a much-worn leather grip, hung his coat over his arm, settled his cap firmly on his head and stepped into the corridor. Unhurriedly he made his way to the rear balcony, allowing those struggling with luggage to pass by, holding back, savouring the moment of return.

It was still raining, a steady drizzle, aftermath of a previous, much harder fall that had begun two hours and fifty miles earlier. His coach, that next the engine, having passed the ambit of the station building, a wood-and-iron ventilatored cavern like a dockside warehouse, he could glimpse across a field of waving umbrellas a pile of yellow stone, glistening in the wet, and note how the headquarters of the new Railway was growing. He didn’t mind the drops that spattered, but appreciatively breathed the cool-sweet air.

A figure waving caught at his attention: tall and fair, holding high a golfing umbrella, the young O/C of Bulawayo’s Town Police was pushing through the throng. At the foot of the steps he halted and saluted, the incongruity augmented by a grin.

Sorry about the weather, sir. Welcome back!

Puddles disappeared in spray as the trap whipped down 13th Avenue.

Kincaid looked about with pleasure. ‘Sorry about the weather’: he liked the irony. Last had been a drought year: cattle died, crops failed, ranchers and farmers had gone out of business; even some of the mines had difficulty so scarce had water been. But now, only mid-September and the rains had come. He glanced upward, where grey wisps hung in sodden blobs beneath an even, lead-hued sky: and significantly; this was no passing shower. Clods of brown and yellow mud flew from the mules’ hooves. They passed a line of stores; men were gathered at the hitching-rail of Treger’s, encouraging a swearing individual bogged to the axles in his Ford. Of course, rain had disadvantages, especially in a town; but one couldn’t have it both ways, not in Africa.

A mule-train stretched across the road, its buck-wagon similarly stuck, and Lt Oldknow swung right and into 14th Avenue, past the sonorous hum of the Railway Beer Saloon, continuing downhill to Fife Street where he turned left.

Here, where the surface mire was mixed with shale, the going was quicker. They sped past Stewarts and Lloyds, tube merchants, past Issels, Ironfounders (main gate given a new coat of paint), slowing where a knot had gathered on the stoep of the Temperance Hotel to offer comment on a pair of drunks in a floundering fist-fight, ankle-deep in thick, red ooze. ’Ware police! The combatants remarked the uniforms, flung their arms about each other in a hasty armistice, and to laughter stumbled back inside.

The lieutenant was apologetic.

It’s been raining for a couple of days now. There’s quite a lot of this, he nodded at the retreating two. Letting off steam, mostly.

Can’t say I blame them. How’s business?

Fair to middling, sir. And Salisbury?

Not much. Crooks Corner…

Oh?

And van Rooyen.

Oh.

They were drawing near the centre with activity on every side increasing: wide streets busy, men on horseback coming, going; carts, wagons, carriages, motor-cars, standing hub-to-hub outside hotels and stores. People massed the covered sidewalks; men, weather-beaten, rough-looking, heavily-moustached, dressed for hard riding and often carrying weapons; women, rarer, picking up their skirts against the trampled wetness of the wooden boards. As they approached Market Square, two girls emerged from the Carlton Tea Rooms and tried without success to negotiate the duck-boards that spanned the street to Haddon and Sly’s Store. Instantly, one was lifted by a burly miner and carried over, followed by another who appropriated her friend; and accompanied by admirers, who, to judge from their enthusiasm, had every intention of carrying them back again once their shopping was complete.

The trap slowed as they crossed the top end of the square.

Here, the crowds were thickest: dark Mashona, brown-skinned Matabele, Kalanga, Varozwi, Bavenda; and foreigners: Fingoes, Zulus, Basutos, and a few Cape Coloureds, come up with the ox-wagons and thereafter remained. Many of the former were in tribal dress, a kaross or multi-coloured blanket slung across one shoulder, staring in wonder at the evidence of this extraordinary new civilisation. Here and there others like themselves, but clad in the spotless white of a house-servant and protected by an ostentatiously-held umbrella, moved among them. Cape-carts of the wandering smous* milled in the centre of the Square, their owners doing brisk business in cut-price house-hold goods and medicines.

[*Smous: an itinerant tinker (Dutch)]

A blacksmith was working at his forge, the usual idlers to be found wherever a single man is busy, lounging about the entrance and staring at the weeping skies while a line of horses, drenched coats shining, waited at the rail outside. A gunsmith was showing off his wares to an interested party at the door of his small shop, sandwiched between the smithy and the office of a forwarding agent. ‘One in the eye for old Miolee’, Kincaid thought of the town’s biggest weapons’ retailer, two streets up. ‘That’s the latest Browning, or I’m much mistaken’.

He leaned back. In the rain of a weekday afternoon his town did not look its best: shabby, gimcrack, grimy; and it was unpredictable and violent too, as well he knew; especially violent. Such had been its origins, embodied by a vengeful Shaka in the very name, the day he assumed chieftainship of the tiny Zulu clan on the banks of the Mhodi River a hundred years and a thousand miles away: kwa Bulawayo.

In those days it was a village only: later, when a full city and he overlord of the new Zulu nation, he was to move it to the north of present Durban. Time passed. Mzilikazi, a captain in his army and his cousin, refusing orders, took his tribe and fled to exile, fighting the long road north into Rhodesia, and settling. He died; and his son, perhaps in memory, perhaps in defiance, or perhaps in honour of the Zulu king, recalled the name.

His became the capital of a second empire, the Matabele, who ranged far and wide, fighting and subjugating where their impis* went. Then he died too, and Cecil Rhodes with his strange white tribes succeeded to the city, fighting for it as was the custom and the way.

Bulawayo, The Place of Slaughter, was true always to its name.

[*Impi: An army (Zulu)]

And now the place was his – his, that was, as far as its tradition went; for he was chief of its police, seat of that force by which it always lived; and if it did not live that way today it was not because it lacked in the desire…

Certainly, like any ruler, he hated being away; and Salisbury, to him a nest of back-biting, back-scratching, back-climbing Company lackeys, of the small talk that went with small minds and marked with a special condescension to its police, was no welcome alternative – too far a cry from his town; for whatever its faults, its sanguinary background, Bulawayo had a history, and a thrusting, vital soul of which he was both proud and fiercely protective.

On the far side of the Market Square stood the big police station, its outlines blurred in early evening gloom. As they splashed through the gates, the man on duty coming smartly to attention, Kincaid drew a breath and turned to his lieutenant with sudden animation.

The place is looking fine! Come up to my office, and I’ll tell you what Bamba Zonke* had to offer.

*Bamba Zonke: Grab-all – a disparaging name for Salisbury.

*   *   *

The boom of hooves and creak of leather mingled with the clink of harness, as rasping, gasping, nearing, veering – pairs, fours, lines, loops – parting, meeting, merging, weaving, men and horses drummed from one formation to another in a ponderously swift ballet A fixed point in the ceaseless movement, in the throbbing concentration of endeavour, calls of warning and command came faintly, ringing in the plateau’s high and empty spaces.

The earth was yellow, grey and faded. Stirring from the interval of rain, shoots quickened the dead surface with the green of spring, while here and there, where fire had flashed, slashes splashed the land with black. Golden sunbeams palely slanted from a sky of softest blue.

It was early morning, the next day.

Gordon Arthur Oldknow, Lieutenant, BSA Police Town Branch, watched ‘K’ Troop mounted drill with expert eye. The horses, big troop-horses every one, were in excellent condition, the riders, firmly, fully in control. They were good; and not a few were very good, in particular the leading section, under Moreton-Brown…

It ended. The Troop turned into line, dismounted and stood to their horses: Captain Murray on a roan mare, Hough the TSM* beside him, moved up and down delivering a critical summation while the ride recovered and the horses pawed and sweated.

[*TSM: Troop Sergeant Major]

The captain ended. He nodded for the TSM to wait and beckoned Oldknow to ride forward. Thirty-two men eyed the self-possessed young O/C of the Town Branch with aversion; but, perversely, he was among the finest horse-men in the country: so they, with the same perversity, approved of him.

He saluted and addressed the ride.

Parade, fourteen-hundred hours today in the Troop Lecture Room. Bring notebooks and pencils – ‘those of you who can read and write’, he felt like adding. That was all.

Expressionless, he saluted the captain again, received a glowering return, and rode away. If you’re going to appropriate my men, then do it; but don’t expect any help from me! ‘K’ Troop’s commander had acknowledged his instructions with anticipated lack of grace, and it was hard to keep a straight face during the ensuing pantomime.

Oldknow leaned forward, patting his mount’s neck. Kincaid was an admirable man; but he wished, at least where it concerned his irascible subordinate, he showed a touch more spirit. He eased into a canter, heading for the jumps. Murray rather condescended to him, too, and was also his opponent at the next gymkhana. But if Kincaid avoided confrontations, he did not. Indeed, he intended to exploit the opportunity…

But the summons was unusual, and speculation from the men on their arrival at the watering-troughs was expert and searching.

"It can’t be a District indaba*," a trooper commented, engaged with girth-straps, or old Scrimshank would have told us so himself.

[*Indaba: A discussion, or matter for discussion: responsibility: an event. A Council of Elders (Zulu)]

He was pretty cheesed about it, though. Did you see the way he looked at Oldknow?

Pounds to pesos it’s cattle-cordon work again… – with resignation.

Outbreak of foot-and-mouth at the Officers’ Mess…

It’s a presentation: Number One Section to get a gong apiece for bravery in the bar.

Came laughter and glances at the trough adjacent, where the five whose skill and discipline the lieutenant had previously remarked were watering their horses. They looked tough, and there was an assurance about them that left comment with a trace of admiration. Moreton-Brown, hard-faced, competent, corporal’s stripes up, had passed the reins to his No 2 and was going from animal to animal, inspecting each minutely. This was where a District man’s effectiveness began (and ended, too, his critics said): with his horse.

No, it’s a Town matter. It was the first again: he disengaged the curb-chain and freed the heavy Pelham bit. Kincaid got in from Salisbury yesterday and Oldknow went to meet him: remember?

Must be why Murray’s cheesed. He hates anything to do with Town.

Not surprising, after Willoughby.

There came a groan, the kind that accompanies a time-worn, much- discussed, unwelcome topic.

Willoughby…

I wonder if he’ll be at this parade.

No fear. He’ll keep out of the way, if you ask me.

He ain’t the sort to keep out of anybody’s way, One lounged against his horse’s flank, fanning himself with his hat, including Mr Murray’s.

Ah, nuts! Anyone who’d do that to another policeman…

Murray ain’t above the law; and he asked for it.

There was a silence. Whatever the shortcomings of their O/C, or reasons for animosity from others, he was a District man, hence owed loyalty.

D’you think they’re all like him in America? came in reference to Willoughby.

No, they’d all be in the stocks! If the Fuzzy-Wuzzies didn’t get ’em.

The Fuzzy-Wuzzies! It was a voice of scorn. "There’s no Fuzzy-Wuzzies in America! They’re in Brazil: miles away! Don’t you know anything?"

Wrangling cheerfully again, they filed their horses into stable.

*   *   *

Town and District. For four years now, the same; yet after so long, ‘police’ was about all they had in common.

Kincaid grunted: he was not dissatisfied. Contrast meant competition, which was conducive to esprit de corps and made good sense…

He sat at a trestle table at one end of the long lecture room, Oldknow beside him leaning back, swagger stick across his knees. In front, on deal chairs, on tables, or propped against the wooden walls, upwards of fifty men in mixed blue and khaki uniforms were writing in notebooks or on scraps of paper. Outside it had begun to rain again, lightly, pleasantly, rustling the bamboo fronds beside the window. He returned to his notes.

…since ‘G’ Troop in Gwanda is fully committed it has been decided that ‘K’ Troop should provide the men needed for this operation. I have discussed it with Captain Murray: Number One section will proceed as from tomorrow on a four-month extended patrol, through Gwanda and Mazunga, down to and along that section of the Limpopo River.

There were a few grins at ‘Mazunga’ and a stir of interest, centering where Moreton-Brown, seated with his men, was occupied in staring at the speaker. "We have no reports that the McKinleys have done anything this side of the border, which I hope remains the case since we have no proper extradition treaty with South Africa. I don’t expect they will, however, given the nature of the country and the presence of a police patrol.

"But be sure to keep this side of the river, he glanced at Moreton-Brown. Let the SAC take care of Crooks Corner, as no doubt they will. Not us. The Jameson affair is not so old that the government of South Africa would take kindly to the fact of our police being on their territory again. Neither would the government of this country, given current political considerations," he added dryly.

He looked down at his notes.

Information on the McKinleys has already appeared in SAC Gazettes, and I suggest you familiarise yourselves before you leave. Next point, he pulled a piece of paper free, Jan van Rooyen.

Some subjects cause amusement without laughter, others the reverse: van Rooyen was one of these. But police failure to locate a wanted criminal was cause for neither, and the chuckles faded at the major’s look.

His apprehension is now urgently required. He is known to operate in southern Matabeleland, and Number One Section, another nod in their direction, will make enquiries in the course of their patrol. But he is also believed to have connections here in Bulawayo, which brings him within the jurisdiction of the Town Police, who must also make efforts to locate him. There is no Gazette reference for him; but I do have something that amounts to a description…

Is a warrant out for his arrest?

The interruption was made bluntly, and so deliberately without apology that those around involuntarily turned. He was leaning with one shoulder against the rear wall of the room, arms folded: gigantically proportioned, very dark, dressed in the informal flannel shirt and stable-bags of one off-duty, regarding the major steadily from under straight black brows. Those who turned, turned back, anticipating a rebuke.

None came.

No, there isn’t, Kincaid replied evenly.

Then what reason do we have for apprehending him?

He is wanted for questioning. There are several cases in which he is believed to be involved.

There are many criminals we need for questioning more urgently than van Rooyen – ones we do have warrants for. Why especially him? Sir.

The accent was distinctly alien, and the ‘Sir’ had come a little late. Kincaid made no answer, waiting. Eyes switched to the lieutenant, understanding: This was ‘Town’.

Your officers receive their orders, Corporal Willoughby, Oldknow’s tone was casual, just as you are now receiving yours, but contained a censure definite enough. There was no reaction.

To continue, Kincaid bridged the awkward moment. Subject was born in Pietermaritzburg in 1868…

With a scrape of furniture and clump of boots the men received dismissal and began to file away. Oldknow watched as Willoughby, twisting slightly, stooped to negotiate the doorway.

Sorry about that, sir, he nodded at the disappearing figure.

In fact he’s right, the major was tidying his notes. "I asked the same myself, in Salisbury. Got a dusty answer, too. ‘Ours not to reason why’."

All the same, it’s not his place to tell you.

They were alone; and the major, locating his pipe, began to light up.

From Salisbury, isn’t he? How long since his transfer here?

Four months, sir.

Why? Fighting, wasn’t it?

Not exactly, sir. Over too quickly to be called a fight, I gather.

He’s big enough. What happened?

Argument, in the Police Bar. Chap named Sweetman. He was taking off his coat preparatory to wading in when Willoughby hit him. With a chair.

Pause. A chair?

An armchair.

Oh. Kincaid frowned, Let’s hope he doesn’t do that here. He pondered. Sweetman, did you say?

Yessir. Police boxing champion. Heavyweight.

Pre-emptive strike, in that case. Can’t blame him, really. Any other trouble, since Mr Murray?

Oldknow shook his head quickly.

Willoughby’s no trouble, sir. He’s a most efficient man. Almost too efficient, he added.

The major nodded. "‘… How did I learn to do right-about-turn?’"

"‘We’re back in the Army again’, Oldknow finished for him. Exactly. He’s done this job before, I’m sure of it: just by the way he stands."

What makes you think so? Kincaid evidently shared the thought, for he leaned a little on the ‘you’.

I was on beat with him the other night when we came across John Henry Simpson in a bar, fighting drunk as usual, but impossible to evict because he’s so big and strong. Willoughby took charge, addressed him as would an officer, told him to stand straight, heels together, shoulders back; then set him marching to the Charge Office, left-right, left-right, with orders to turn himself in for being drunk and disorderly. As you know, John Henry used to be a Gunner: he took it like a lamb, reported in as ordered, spent the night in the cells and paid his fine next morning. That takes experience. Have you seen his Record of Service?

"Yes. Marksman with rifle and pistol. First-class horsemaster: they must have found one big enough to carry him. Passed to corporal in only three years with nearly full marks: Law and Police was his best subject. But nothing about any past experience."

"What was his previous occupation?"

‘Delivery-boy’ – or so it says.

Oldknow gave a short laugh.

No more likely than his stated date of birth: in ’78. I’d say it was ten years earlier than that.

He wouldn’t be the first to fudge about his age.

"Is he a South African?"

Such papers as he has, say that he is.

From his accent he’s American, although he doesn’t write like one: spelling, and so forth. Should I tackle him about it?

Do you want to?

Oldknow made a face.

The Pay Clerk tried, and was told to mind his own damn’ business.

What sort of person is he? Kincaid sounded curious. I don’t mean as a policeman.

Difficult to say, sir: he doesn’t talk a lot. To tell the truth, I’m darned if I can make him out. He’s old enough, good enough, and confident enough to be a lot senior, or self-employed, or have a top job in Civvy Street.

Gentleman-ranker?

Oldknow shook his head. He’s not a gentleman. In a way, he’s more. He doesn’t lead: he commands. You may have noticed.

Does he bully?

Oldknow looked at him, knowing what he meant yet wondering why he should have asked.

No, sir. Not at all.

Does he drink?

I believe so, sir. But no one’s ever seen him drunk.

The major seemed satisfied. Born out of his time, perhaps, he commented, coming to his feet. Or of his class. As you said, he’s confident enough.

Oldknow nodded.

Willoughby, from wherever he might come, was plainly a Colonial, in England’s view, the lower middle class. Which Colonials dismissed: the job and how you did it was what made your class; and where the job was law-enforcement, in efficiency, disinterest and consistency Willoughby was anybody’s equal. ‘New Professionals’ the Old School called them, not admiringly, believing they denied the gentlemanly values: honour, chivalry and morally correct behaviour. Not so. New Professionals didn’t think of them as class-related, that was all; and in observing them were more uncompromising than the Old School – possibly the reason for the rancour.

What sort of person was he? On transfer, at first he had accompanied him, inspecting beats to see he did it properly: latterly (he gave an inward shrug) because he did it properly. Actually, it didn’t matter: Oldknow was concerned about him more as a policeman than a person. Of course he didn’t have that fault of young policemen, of taking illegalities reflexively: the hostile tone, the frosty eye, the attitude of personal affront: he was polite, detached, even to a touch of humour – but in charge.

He was the sort who made a force effective, Oldknow thought, what real police work was about. He had shortcomings, and a short temper was one of them; but if his brusque rejection of such subtle things as class distinctions, now and for the same reason included the less subtle but more cogent ones of rank (like many of undisclosed background serving presently, Willoughby was years older than most of his superiors), it was all part of the same consistency, the same impatience with non-essentials, and, within limits, allowable. Sometimes, even, to his mute exasperation, the lieutenant found himself following where his corporal led.

He’s a bit of a lone wolf, really. He gave a sigh. I don’t even believe that Willoughby’s his real name.

He wouldn’t be the first to fudge there, either.

By the way, sir, I noticed a reaction from the men when you mentioned Mazunga. What is there to smirk about?

A woman: wife of the manager. I’ve met her: she’s most attractive.

Understandable, in that case, Oldknow gave a short laugh, "since there are few enough of them out here."

Kincaid gathered his papers, and they made their way towards the door.

I don’t remember the Jameson Raid personally, Oldknow remarked as they stood looking out. I was only thirteen at the time. But I heard a lot about it. He turned, You were there though, weren’t you, sir?

But the major did not appear to hear. He stepped down: a moment later, Oldknow followed, and they walked into the damp, refreshing air.

*   *   *

Willoughby completed reading the SAC Gazettes, initialled it, put down the pen and glanced up at the station clock: ten-thirty of the night shift, Number Two Relief. He stood up, reaching for his white-topped cap suspended on a peg behind him. The movement broke upon the stillness of the room, and one of his two constables, engaged in something, looked up inquiringly.

I’m going to inspect beats, the corporal said. Check the cells, will you. I’ll be back in an hour.

He scanned the Occurrence Book, that big, wide, wooden-covered, newly-instituted office record lying open on the counter, a reflex action now; and adjusting his striped ‘On Duty’ armband passed through the doors and into Selborne Avenue.

A nearly-full moon, floating in an empty sky, etched the roofs and gables of the buildings opposite, sinking their black angles into deeper dark and glinting on the strips of water serpentining down the rutted street. He looked around, winding up his watch.

Despite the hour, the town was busy. Men passed to and fro on mules and horses. A trio in a dogcart splashed by, talking: a party in a sociable went the other way. A jin-rickshaw, its backward-leaning passenger balancing the operator as he loped between the shafts, sped northward. A pair of motors – there were more than a hundred in Bulawayo now – with headlamps like great yellow eyes, snuffled and puffed past, smelling queerly. Cyclists, many cyclists, bumped and swore over the potholes, through the puddles and the mud. Lights glowed in the hotels and saloons.

Willoughby walked slowly. The darkness was the temperature of blood: moisture in the air remaining since the rain had given to it substance, the impression one was moving through a milk-warm sea. There was a softness, a breathless expectancy, peculiar to this time and place, highveld Africa in spring, a sensation of enchantment that made one linger, eyes dilating like a cat’s, to miss nothing of the mystery and splendour of the night.

He crossed Selborne Avenue, glancing at the crossroads where the Gardner machine-gun used at the Bembezi river, last battle of the Matabele War, rested on its plinth before a building and a sign that never failed to make him scowl: ‘Willoughbys’.

Too many conversations had a way of starting, ‘Oh, I say, are you by any chance related to Willoughby’s Consolidated…?’, an association he disliked, not just because this same Sir John had been the officer to lead the Jameson Raid, that inept, illegal, criminally stupid and disastrous incursion into South Africa seventeen years before, referred to by Kincaid at the briefing, but because he, Willoughby, took pains in speech and manner to make it plain that he was anything but related – or even a fellow countryman. He therefore made it plainer. ‘Oh, sorry! I thought you might have been from Home.’

This was also typical and annoyed him further. For somebody to come eight thousand miles across the sea to Southern Africa, find a job, build a house, plant a garden, cultivate the land, marry and raise children, yet talk of and regard England as being ‘Home’, to him was more than maudlin: it made clear the fellow’s attitude: to milk it. And to those ‘Colonials’ who’d really built the country, said patronisingly and with a downward twisting of the mouth, the fellow’s attitude was much the same.

He passed the Hotel Maxim: all quiet inside.

Affectation, of course. The British were notoriously class-conscious, and jingoes were a typical example. A few years in Rhodesia and they’d be Colonials too, those worth anything, and as intolerant of new ‘chums’, pronounced the northern way, yearning for ‘Home’, as the old Colonials had been of them.

And so the cycle would begin again.

He waited where an electric streetlight (no less!) lit up its little patch of ground beneath, for the night-beat detail to make his point. Footsteps came: he signed the notebook, watched the man resume, then turned up 9th Avenue, west towards Abercorn Street, checking shops and stores and banks and offices as he went by.

South along Abercorn to l0th: now he found himself amid the throng of late drinkers on the sidewalk outside the emptying Palace Bar, listening to their continued arguments and yarns and stretchers, half aware because so used to it, of the lowering of conversation as he passed. Tonight the silences were marked, and he knew he was being watched with more reserve. He remembered: this was where the incident with Murray had occurred: near here. He shrugged. No one should play games with Law, especially not a policeman, which Murray should have known. He dismissed the recollection.

What did Kincaid mean by ‘current political considerations’? Like all newcomers to a country he knew little of its politics: not that that made any difference: he wouldn’t have been interested had he been born and raised here, for the subject bored him to extinction. What had politics to do with hoodlums such as the McKinleys anyway?

He dismissed that recollection, too.

‘Apprehend van Rooyen’: no stated crime, no warrant of arrest, not even a description; and van Rooyen was the commonest of names. What did they expect: to conjure him from thin air? Authority could be pretty dense at times. Forget the whole thing.

Another recollection disappeared.

He stopped and looked about, enjoying the liberation of the night. There was nothing much for him to do. Rhodesia’s was a quiet population, by and large; compared to where he came from a bunch of plaster saints. Better class of people, mostly, white and black, though it gave him no especial pleasure to admit it. Where else, for instance, could one find the monthly yield from the nation’s largest gold mine left standing on the platform of a station in an unlocked wooden box, with none to guard it but an aged porter armed only with a whistle and a flag? Yet he had seen it, at the Globe and Phoenix siding, halfway to Salisbury, and been told that this was regular procedure and that other mines were just as casual.

And bushrangers, hold-up men, in Southern Africa? Until now, with the McKinleys, they were a joke. The Rand produced more gold, not to mention diamonds elsewhere, than the whole world put together, all conveyed by stage-coach or buck-wagon in the past and much of it by this means still: yet robbery was almost non-existent; and in the course of the recorded few, no one, to his knowledge, had been killed. Not like the places he had known and worked: there, bullion transports went weapone’d to the teeth, as did their predators, and men died almost by routine.

It wasn’t only that the people here were of a better class: the country, too, contributed. In any frontier territory, threat was ever present; but where he came from it was impersonal, from the sky, in snow and ice and wind and lightning bolts, and with a little practice one could duck. It had no enmity, or point or purpose: it simply struck and surged on past.

But in Africa the threat was in the land itself, contained in every yard of ground you trod; and very personal. The animals, the reptiles, the insects, the poisonous plants and weeds and trees, all and each had one intent it seemed: to kill you dead; you, personally: and disease, to get you if the others didn’t; and your friends and family, your cattle, horses, oxen, mules, donkeys, goats, chickens, crops, even flower beds – anything it could and all the time.

He remembered the British casualty figures, released after the Boer War: 8,000 killed by enemy action, shot and shell, the deliberate hand of man; and 13,000 by the aimless hand of nature: typhoid, enteric and blackwater fever; malaria, snake-bite, sunburn, heat-stroke, thirst, scorpions, hookworm, tape-worm, tick-fever, rabies …

Such figures by themselves said most of what there was to say on Africa.

And with the native peoples too, the difference was the same. Bloods, Crees, Blackfoot, Piegans, flying towards you, flat along their horses’ backs, attacked and passed so quickly that they didn’t seem related to the land at all; frightening at the time until, again, one learned to deal with them: stand firm, use cover and shoot straight; and then, like summer storms, they would be gone, their path continuing beyond the far horizon.

Not so in Africa. Here the enemy, like everything, sprang upward from the ground: ten – a thousand – ten thousand warriors, trained and disciplined, moving towards you, inexorably set to kill you dead: you,