Yesterday's Promise (18 page)

“Let's find out,” he said, then turned his horse to ride down the hillock as Derwent fell in behind. Mornay turned in his creaking leather saddle and gave a swift order to the Bantu, who followed, alert.

They came down onto the veld and rode through the short grasses, keeping a safe distance from the riverbank. Even so, pink and white flamingos nervously swooped away in a pastel haze of wings, causing a great whooshing sound that scattered other birds into their wake. A crocodile basked on the slippery bank under the hot sun. Its six-foot-long body of greenish-gray armor appeared still and lifeless, its deadly mouth wide open as tiny, courageous birds picked particles of food from between its large teeth.

Rogan entered the base camp, which his crew of Bantu workers had set up under Mornay's orders two weeks earlier. The sun was beginning its retreat behind distant hills, painting the boulders with golden-rose tints. Rogan surveyed new Capetown carts, surreys, and covered wagons, some of which had settled in and formed an overnight camp with their own. He did not like what this implied and exchanged concerned looks with Mornay.

The silver-browed Boer of French descent did not try to hide his tension. Rogan knew the split between Mornay and Sir Julien over the unexpected decision to work for him instead of Julien had left rancor between them. He also knew that Julien would do everything within his power to stop his expedition.

Mornay, loyal to the Boer Republics, was not in sympathy with the Company's goals to turn the region “all red,” as Cecil Rhodes envisioned. Mornay had admitted to Rogan when he agreed to lead the expedition that he had only made the map because of the high price Parnell had paid him. He had worked for Julien for the same reason. Now he was working for Rogan for less money but with a greater ease of conscience, or so he said.

Rogan drew rein and studied the well-fed horses, oxen, and mules before dismounting. The other animals were being attended by more than thirty chocolate-brown Bantu servants, lithe and straight-shouldered.

Rogan swung down, his boots hitting the powdery dust that was everywhere, and dropped the reins on a thorn bush. One of his own Bantu led the gelding away to be rubbed down and fed.

The luxuriant camping scene of the newcomers convinced Rogan he was right. The unwanted company were diamond rands from Kimberly.

Purple twilight filtered through the lemon-flowered acacia trees, offering speckled shadows. The breeze kicked up, warm and thick with the pungent smells of a wild land, setting Rogan as much on edge as any hunted animal.

Footsteps crunched over the warm ground behind him. Rogan turned, suspecting he would see that swarthy, one-eyed tyrant uncle of his, and instead confronted the pearl-gray-eyed Darinda. He muttered his frustration under his breath. A girl, a pretty one at that, was the last thing he wanted to trouble with now, and this one was not past wandering the camp as freely as she pleased.

At least she was dressed for the rough in what looked like a specially designed hunter's outfit of tan, in the style of a riding habit. He noted she wore a belt and a smaller pistol, probably a .38.

Aware that she had spoken, Rogan roused himself and smiled—casually, he hoped.

“What are you doing here, Darinda?”

She walked toward him. “I told you at Kimberly I intended to join the expedition north.”

He managed a disarming smile. “If your grandfather and Parnell agree to let you face lions and hippos on the Company trek north, far be it from me to raise dust over it, but not on this expedition, Cousin.”

He tried to ignore that she stood too close, hands on hips, her dark head tilted, looking up at him to see what he would do. He had a mind to let her know. He chuckled and gave her chin a little flip with his finger that broke the spell she was trying to weave.

“No women allowed. Not even the granddaughter of a diamond rand.”

Her eyes turned cool, and she stepped back.

“We will see. This may not be your private little expedition much longer.”

That should have warned him, but perhaps he had grown too confident in the past two months since the confrontation with Julien at the diamond mine. He had avoided the family since then, working with Mornay to arrange his own trek. Then two weeks ago they had made camp here by the Limpopo River. Things were still unsettled. The best trekking season wasn't for a few more months.

“How did Julien know where I was?”

She shrugged. “Really, Rogan, you need to ask? Grandfather has spies everywhere. We knew when you left Kimberly and moved out to Mornay's place. A Bantu reported to Parnell the day you arrived here on the river. Grandfather's been a regular porcupine ever since you succeeded in hiring Mornay away from him.” She glanced over toward the old Frenchman and Derwent, who were both keeping their distance near the campfire.

Mornay, as hard as a piece of biltong, that sun-dried strip of salted meat, regarded her with no expression on his leathery face. He stooped and, as an apparent dismissal, removed the tin mug he kept on a hook on his belt and filled it with inky coffee from the pot perched on the hot
coals. The old bachelor turned his back, showing that he considered the opposite sex about as welcome as a mosquito.

But Derwent smiled shyly at her, removed his hat, and offered a small bow that reflected upon his years in Grimston Way, when he would bid good evening to the squire.

“Hello, Derwent. Alice will be joining you soon?”

“No, Miss, she'll be staying on in Kimberly with church folks.”

“Oh, surely she'll change her mind when she hears I'll be going along on the expedition.”

Derwent remained silent and glanced sideways at Rogan.

Rogan stood with his arms folded, jaw set. She didn't seem to notice his coolness, or else she didn't care.

“So you've won over the dour old Mornay. Lucky for you, though. He can speak Lobengula's language. But as you must know, the risk is great. The old Ndebele warrior is in no generous mood.” She looked directly at Rogan's revolver. “They say you are a dead shot.”

Rogan knew about the risk, but he kept from smiling his irony, since she wasn't likely to understand the risk facing him in the guise of the Capetown randlords, of whom Sir Julien was one. The “white peril” was perhaps as threatening to his safety as the Ndebele warriors, who, like their cousins the Zulu, used the sharp assegai, a slender iron-tipped spear made of the wood of the assegai. An army of mighty impis abode near Bulawayo, where their king, Lobengula, had his great kraal.

In order to reach the Zambezi, Rogan would need to pass through Lobengula's Matabeleland, which presented serious dangers if indeed the old chieftain was riled. But Mornay had hinted of a route that might avoid Lobengula's land and thus his warriors. In past years Lobengula had warred with another tribe, the Shona to the north, and had invaded and conquered the Shona, making them slaves and incorporating some into his army. In his own words, Lobengula had made them his “dirt-eating dogs,” and now he considered Mashonaland an extension of Matabeleland.

Darinda had said
we
when she first mentioned finding his camp,
and Rogan looked toward the lighted safari coach. Not even Darinda would be allowed to travel alone.

“Where is Julien?”

“With the others. All anxious to meet you. There's been a great lot of talk about Sir Lyle's ‘other son from England.' Grandfather has told them obstacles don't easily deter you once your mind is made up.” She looked intrigued by this.

“Parnell must be here too. I doubt he'd let you out of his sight.”

Darinda looked bored. “Parnell bullies me.”

Rogan smiled his skepticism. “I imagine it's the other way around.”

“I've told Julien I'll marry whomever I wish,” she stated firmly. Her eyes found his.

Why tell him?

“You underestimate me?”

His tight smile continued. “Never.”

Someone stepped from the tent, silhouetted in the flickering lantern light. Rogan would recognize his brother anywhere.

“Darinda? This is no place to be wandering about alone. Sir Julien is asking for you. Hullo, Rogan.”

“You see?” she whispered with a smile. “A bully. I wonder what he's so cautious of?” And placing a hand on Rogan's arm again, she slowly withdrew it and walked ahead to the tent.

Rogan watched her until she pulled open the flap and stepped inside.

Parnell walked toward him. He was unsmiling, but apparently this time he seemed undisturbed that Darinda had come out to greet him. Yet Rogan did not miss the gravity of his brother's look.

“I warned you back at Kimberly, Rogan. I told you Julien wouldn't sit by idly and allow you to lead a rebellion against his interests. You see? I was right, wasn't I? You have a lot to learn, Rogan.” He seemed satisfied that he thought so. “Your expedition won't proceed without him. Not even if you've managed to snare Mornay. A clever move, by the way. Even Julien's money couldn't hold the cold fish for long.”

“Maybe Mornay has reasons for avoiding Julien's gilded pond.”

“Oh, sure, the old Boer has his patriotism, love for the independence of South Africa, and a ruddy dislike for the British Union Jack! But his French pride won't deter Julien. He's a master at strategy.”

“He's had years to sharpen his craft,” Rogan said dryly. “I wouldn't be boasting, if I were you.” He gestured toward the elaborate camping rig. “What do you have there? Looks like a traveling safari.”

Parnell chuckled at Rogan's wry description of the outfit of tents, wagons, and surreys.

“You're not far from the truth. There's even wine from Paris.” His hand on Rogan's shoulder held him back a moment longer. Parnell lowered his voice.

“Darinda told you Julien's here?”

“I recognized his golden gelding as soon as I rode in. Look, Parnell…” He felt a weighty spirit settle over him. “We discussed the expedition back at Kimberly. I've already explained my plans to you. You were to make my intentions clear to Julien. And since then, nothing has changed.”

“Ha! Since when did I need to explain your intentions? You made them quite clear yourself at De Beers two months ago. I thought Julien would take that sjambok from his guard and try to use it on you. He was livid that night at Kimberly House. He fired Jorgen, did you know?”

That, Rogan had not heard. “But he hasn't decided to play fair with Sheehan and his uncle.”

“He won't. Best forget that. Sheehan's into farming now.”

“This meeting won't change my mind,” Rogan insisted, remembering the ugly scene at the Big Hole.

Parnell slowly shook his head in doubt. “I wonder. This isn't even Julien's idea, though he bought into it quickly enough. Coming here was Mr. Rhodes's idea. He's here, and so is Dr. Jameson.”

Cecil Rhodes, here? That surprised Rogan. Rhodes owned the Royal Charter from the queen, which authorized his British South Africa
Company to sponsor a colony in the north. The man controlled millions in diamonds and gold.

“You'll need to cooperate with him,” Parnell said. “It'll pay off in the end, though. You're likely to end up one of the moguls yourself.”

“That's your dream, Parnell, not mine. You've given in to Julien too easily. He's had your cooperation since before we went to university in London.”

Rogan softened the mild rebuke with an understanding smile, though his brother's decision troubled him.

“You want Darinda too much.”

Parnell's sharpened gaze swung to Rogan. “Why discuss her?”

“Julien knows what you want. He weighs everything in the balance of getting a good return. He'll turn you into his indentured servant until he agrees to release her in a marriage that suits his purpose. Like poor Jacob dealing with his Uncle Laban, Uncle Julien will make you serve double time before you get her.”

Parnell loosened his shirt collar. “You're being a bit dramatic, aren't you?”

“But truthful.”

“Yes…you're right. But Julien will make sure you give in too. Don't think you'll get away with this trek a free man. There's no way around him without cooperation. Look, Rogan, don't rile them tonight. For your sake. Please play along and be the gentleman. Will you?”

Rogan drew his mouth into a smile that showed his cynicism. “Be compliant, a piece of clay in the hands of the great nation builder, Cecil Rhodes.” He shook his head. “One thing's wrong with that. Rhodes isn't the Divine Potter.”

Parnell jerked his shoulder. “You've been listening too much to old Derwent. He should have stayed back in Grimston Way and become the vicar. Look, I've already told you back at the Cape you don't have to like the leaders in the BSA. Few of us do. But you do need to look at things as they are, not as you'd like them to be. Rhodes is a powerful man and owns
millions
.”

“Understood, only too well. Money speaks.” As Rogan said it, he was still remembering Sheehan, remembering also that he still needed more money to sponsor his expedition. True, he had made arrangements with Mornay, but money was still needed up front for supplies, extra oxen, horses, mules, fodder, and the hiring of a few more guards with guns. Guards were a necessity. This experience with money was becoming too familiar, bearing a marked resemblance to Henry Chantry's early days.

“Well, we were always told money was power, weren't we?” Rogan said, his voice sharp. “Power to rule. We knew it even as children at Grimston Way when Father's position as squire meant we owned the village and just about everyone in it.”

Parnell tilted his head. “What's come over you? Blackwater fever?”

“Maybe I just don't approve of the dirty deal done to Sheehan. I don't agree with a lot of things I've seen since arriving.”

“You sound like a peasant with rebellion brewing in your mind. I'd swear you've changed since you arrived in Africa,” Parnell said, his chestnut brows tufted together.