anything with them. No . . .’ The trader’s voice faded away for a moment. ‘The worst are the Portuguese.’
‘Why?’
‘They think this territory is theirs anyway, because they’ve been next door in Mozambique for bloody centuries. But they’ve never really had the guts just to come in and invade and settle the land, which is what is called for. The main problem is that they are insistent. They’ve got a man here now. His name is Manuel Antonio de Sousa - very fancy bloke to match his fancy name. But everybody calls him Gouela. He’s a slave master in his own right and a cruel bastard - ah, excuse me, ma’am.’
Alice, whose eyes had never left Fairbairn’s face, nodded her acceptance.
‘He has abused all the tribes in his territory to the east. He rapes and flogs, but he’s got a silver tongue from what I hear and he is here to rubbish the British to the king and to get him to sign a treaty with the Portuguese. He’s got silly airs and graces but the king gets taken in by all this stuff. So Rhodes ought to watch out.’
Fonthill slowly nodded his head. ‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘Now, Mr Fairbairn, we have just a little drop of Boer brandy left. Will you take a dram?’
Fairbairn stood. ‘No, thank you kindly. I must be getting back. He looked down at the bundle at his feet. ‘I will leave all this stuff with you. Take what you want and bring the rest back to the store and . . . er . . . you can pay me there. It’s about three hundred yards that way, outside the outer fence. Now, I’ll say good night to you all.’
After his departure, Alice drew her knees up under her chin and stared into the embers of the fire reflectively. ‘I have to say, Simon,’ she said, ‘that I don’t like the sound of all this. You must be careful not to trade on your incredibly close relationship with our Queen,’ she looked up and grinned, ‘because you would just be the latest in a long line of interlopers here who couldn’t deliver. You mustn’t be a scapegoat for Cecil John Rhodes.’
‘And, look you, I don’t like what I ’ear about this Portuguese chap,’ said Jenkins. ‘Manuel Saucepot or whatever ’is name is. I fancy ’e could be trouble.’
Fonthill rose to his feet. ‘Well, I’ll try and stay out of this mess if I can. But I can’t see us getting out of here before our transport arrives. We are in the hands of the king, for better or worse. So let’s go to bed.’
Chapter 3
The next morning Fonthill, stripped to the waist, was washing outside the hut in a bowl of cold water when he saw a strange apparition approaching. A white man, resplendent in a yellow uniform, complete with gold buttons and red braid at the shoulders and a sword at his waist, was being slowly borne towards him on a palanquin, or litter, carried by two Kaffirs. At the door of the hut, the litter was carefully lowered to the ground and the man put out his jackbooted legs, stood stiffly and inclined his head.
He said something quickly in a language foreign to Fonthill and waited for a reply. ‘I am sorry,’ said Simon, hurriedly towelling himself. ‘You must forgive me, but I don’t speak that language.’
‘Of course not.’ The man’s English was highly accented but it was clear that he was being contemptuous. ‘Why is it that you English do not speak any language other than your own?’ It was not a question, more a condemnation. Fonthill studied him carefully. He was of medium height-a little shorter than Simon - strongly built and with a face that reflected a life spent in the tropics: pockmarked and yellow-tinged. Beneath the peaked cap that matched the uniform hung hair in waved ringlets. He must be, of course, the Portuguese spoken of last night by Fairbairn.
‘I am afraid that with most of us that is true,’ Fonthill replied, pulling over his head the coarse shirt that Mr Fairbairn had supplied. ‘Though not all of us. Mais si vous parlez
‘Why?’
‘They think this territory is theirs anyway, because they’ve been next door in Mozambique for bloody centuries. But they’ve never really had the guts just to come in and invade and settle the land, which is what is called for. The main problem is that they are insistent. They’ve got a man here now. His name is Manuel Antonio de Sousa - very fancy bloke to match his fancy name. But everybody calls him Gouela. He’s a slave master in his own right and a cruel bastard - ah, excuse me, ma’am.’
Alice, whose eyes had never left Fairbairn’s face, nodded her acceptance.
‘He has abused all the tribes in his territory to the east. He rapes and flogs, but he’s got a silver tongue from what I hear and he is here to rubbish the British to the king and to get him to sign a treaty with the Portuguese. He’s got silly airs and graces but the king gets taken in by all this stuff. So Rhodes ought to watch out.’
Fonthill slowly nodded his head. ‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘Now, Mr Fairbairn, we have just a little drop of Boer brandy left. Will you take a dram?’
Fairbairn stood. ‘No, thank you kindly. I must be getting back. He looked down at the bundle at his feet. ‘I will leave all this stuff with you. Take what you want and bring the rest back to the store and . . . er . . . you can pay me there. It’s about three hundred yards that way, outside the outer fence. Now, I’ll say good night to you all.’
After his departure, Alice drew her knees up under her chin and stared into the embers of the fire reflectively. ‘I have to say, Simon,’ she said, ‘that I don’t like the sound of all this. You must be careful not to trade on your incredibly close relationship with our Queen,’ she looked up and grinned, ‘because you would just be the latest in a long line of interlopers here who couldn’t deliver. You mustn’t be a scapegoat for Cecil John Rhodes.’
‘And, look you, I don’t like what I ’ear about this Portuguese chap,’ said Jenkins. ‘Manuel Saucepot or whatever ’is name is. I fancy ’e could be trouble.’
Fonthill rose to his feet. ‘Well, I’ll try and stay out of this mess if I can. But I can’t see us getting out of here before our transport arrives. We are in the hands of the king, for better or worse. So let’s go to bed.’
Chapter 3
The next morning Fonthill, stripped to the waist, was washing outside the hut in a bowl of cold water when he saw a strange apparition approaching. A white man, resplendent in a yellow uniform, complete with gold buttons and red braid at the shoulders and a sword at his waist, was being slowly borne towards him on a palanquin, or litter, carried by two Kaffirs. At the door of the hut, the litter was carefully lowered to the ground and the man put out his jackbooted legs, stood stiffly and inclined his head.
He said something quickly in a language foreign to Fonthill and waited for a reply. ‘I am sorry,’ said Simon, hurriedly towelling himself. ‘You must forgive me, but I don’t speak that language.’
‘Of course not.’ The man’s English was highly accented but it was clear that he was being contemptuous. ‘Why is it that you English do not speak any language other than your own?’ It was not a question, more a condemnation. Fonthill studied him carefully. He was of medium height-a little shorter than Simon - strongly built and with a face that reflected a life spent in the tropics: pockmarked and yellow-tinged. Beneath the peaked cap that matched the uniform hung hair in waved ringlets. He must be, of course, the Portuguese spoken of last night by Fairbairn.
‘I am afraid that with most of us that is true,’ Fonthill replied, pulling over his head the coarse shirt that Mr Fairbairn had supplied. ‘Though not all of us. Mais si vous parlez
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