Yesterday's Promise (34 page)

“It was you, Mr. Rogan, who insisted you wouldn't end up a Rhodes man.”

“I'm not a Rhodes man,” Rogan gritted. “I'll remain independent.”

Derwent shook his head. “Joining forces is just that. You said you wouldn't lose your freedom, or sear your conscience by being bought.”

In a sudden burst of anger, Rogan struck him. Derwent lost his footing, bracing his fall with one knee and a hand.

For a moment Rogan didn't move, so stunned was he by his own impulsive action.

Derwent recovered and got to his feet. He avoided Rogan's gaze, and shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he walked away into the early dawn, head down.

“Derwent—” Rogan began and took a step in his direction, then stopped. He tightened his jaw. He looked down at his hand, tightly clenched. What had he done?

Frustrated, Rogan snatched up his leather hat, strapped on his belt, and strode off in a scowl to locate Mornay.

The sun climbed in its glory in a cloudless sky, and the camp was awake and stirring. The African workers were beginning to tear down the tents and load the wagons for the journey back to Kimberly.

Mornay, with the help of two Basuto servants, was loading his wagons.

Rogan stopped a few feet away. “So you've made up your mind too?”

Mornay's angular face was grim, his silver beard in contrast to his bushy black brows.

“It seems we have both counted our coins and come up short, monsieur. The BSA will not allow you sole ownership of any gold find, though the map is legally yours. Rhodes has hired Selous as guide to the Zambezi.” He shrugged. “You are a clever young man, Rogan. You and I, we both know when the wall is too thick to butt our heads against. So we wisely seek a door.”

Rogan didn't find the practical advice solacing, even if he agreed Mornay was right about bucking Rhodes.

“A man must make his way, and life…well, it must still go on,” Mornay continued. “You and I, we make the best of it. Derwent, he is disappointed, but his conscience is more tender than yours or mine.” He looked across the camp toward Derwent, who was rolling up his blanket and packing his things. “White is white, and black is black. But we see things sometimes gray.”

Rogan drew his brows together. Mornay wasn't making him feel any wiser. He had no desire to see truth as a muddled gray. Did he?

“Derwent was raised a vicar's son. For him, compromising with what one believes is right is evil. On that, I believe as he does.”

“Ah,
oui
…the end, it does not justify the means. Yes, that is how Derwent would say. But we know what we want, do we not? We know, and we seek it by whatever means we can. Then it will be right.”

Rogan stood looking at Mornay and felt his scowl deepening.

Mornay cocked a brow, as though wondering what troubled him. “You have reasons to cooperate with Sir Julien Bley,” Mornay said in a soothing tone. “For should you stubbornly proceed to resist the Company's plans, I would not wager that your head would remain long in place.”

“You may be right, but I wager my head will remain in place awhile at least.” He added dryly, “I and
only I
still possess Henry's map. Despite the blunder near Bulawayo to steal it.”

Mornay rubbed his chin. “The Captain Retford and I, we both think it was Sir Julien's little granddaughter and your brother. We think you believe that too.”

Rogan did think so. He also believed it wouldn't happen again. He turned and walked away, jerking his hat lower over his face.

Derwent was packing his satchel when Rogan approached.

“Appears that we'll be going to Kimberly, Mr. Rogan. I've got our workers loading our wagons now.”

“Look, Derwent, about what happened a little while ago…I'm sorry. I didn't use my head. I won't let it happen again… I promise you. If it will help, you can go ahead and clobber me right now.”

Derwent stood, wiping the dust from his hands. He grinned. “I've known you too long to think it would help, Mr. Rogan.”

Rogan arched a brow, then laughed. He touched Derwent's shoulder. “Listen, why don't I arrange for you and Alice to return to England when we get to Kimberly? I've been thinking. You want a farm—I can have my father choose you some nice property around Grimston Way. You can help Vicar Osgood out at the rectory and be around all your decent friends again, instead of a ruddy lout like me.”

“Oh no, Mr. Rogan—”

“If you and Alice settle there, I can transfer the ownership to you once I inherit Rookswood. Someday I am going back home…that, I promise you too. Our children will be friends, just the way we were.”

Derwent ducked his head and fumbled with his gun belt. He shook his head and arranged his hat, looking embarrassed. “I wouldn't want to go back yet. Not without you. Neither would Alice. She'll come along on the expedition too, now that Miss Arcilla and Miss Darinda are going. If you're going with the BSA—then I'm coming with you. I wouldn't want to see you going on without me. Someone's got to be there when—” He stopped.

Rogan offered a faint smile. “When things fall apart? Perhaps they will. Another reason it may be best if you go back. What's ahead may not be pretty. In fact, I'm sure we will be facing even greater danger as we proceed.”

Derwent shook his head. “If things fall apart, then that's where I need to be.” He cleared his throat. “I'd like to go on, if you don't mind.”

Rogan was touched by his loyalty, but he didn't want to get too sentimental. He'd already said more than he was prone to say.

“If that's what you really want, it's fine with me. Did you feed my horse?”

“He's full and raring to ride.”

“Good. As you said, we've a lot to do before the pioneer trek begins in June.”

Rogan walked away, feeling the sun warming his back and shoulders, aware of the map strapped safely under his canvas shirt. He could almost imagine it weighing him down a little more than when he had left England with it. His dreams were not so shiny as they once were. They had been tarnished now by Julien's. Setting his face with grim determination, Rogan would go forward with his plans. He believed he was now in too deeply to change course. If he went back to Grimston Way now, he would go back with near empty pockets and nothing to show for all his years of planning. He wouldn't end up following Henry's footsteps to defeat.

Yes, this was another reason for staying and fighting. He wanted to make his own way without any help, especially from his uncle Julien. It was one thing to acquire the estate and lands, but quite another to forge a name for himself with his own sagacity and hard work.

Pride, he thought sourly, could be costly indeed.

Nor was there reason to return home to England. His path must never cross Evy van Buren's in the summer garden at Rookswood, where he had held her and kissed her before sailing for Africa. Little had he known that it would become their final good-bye. He could lose himself in this expedition, and while there could be nothing between him and Evy, he wanted her to know the truth about her lineage—and her mother. He could also give her that much, at least. He could also give her a godly relative, Jakob van Buren.

Though this was the trekking season, Arcilla thought the morning of the twenty-fourth of June was hot and dusty near the Motloutsi River. The expedition was about to begin. Arcilla sat alone on the buckboard of the wagon she would share with Peter. It would be their home for months to come. She fanned her face, dreading the long ordeal that lay ahead. She already felt her muscles tense and her stomach become queasy, and the wagons had yet to start moving. Perhaps they wouldn't even make it to Fort Salisbury. Perhaps they would die on the way, horribly massacred by savages with spears just as it had happened years ago at Rorke's Drift. The thought sent shivers down her spine. She looked over at Alice Tisdale Brown in their covered wagon. Alice looked tense too, but also excited.
But not over visions of sugarplum fairies. She's dreaming of pockets full of gold
, Arcilla thought.

Alice hadn't changed much since the Grimston Way years, except that her disapproving mouth looked more puckered, and her strawberry-blond hair was more limp, though still wrapped around her head in a Boer fashion braid. Her skin was still sallow, Arcilla noticed, but there were freckles now. Arcilla was pleased her own skin was still flawless ivory, thanks to her wisdom in
always
remembering her hats, parasols, gloves, and potions. Poor Alice. She must have given up any concern for her appearance.

Ah, well…Derwent had freckles, too. But then, Derwent Brown had
always
had freckles. In fact, freckles looked cute on him. She smiled, rather liking Derwent. As a girl, she had thought him country. Now she thought him very polite and kind. He had deserved better than Alice.

Arcilla swished her fan and slapped at a persistent insect that buzzed around her face. She reached for the jar of repellent. Peter was right. It
did
work. Maybe she could pour some of her French perfume in the foul-smelling goop. Why, she could market the ointment and make millions! But no—that would mean working with the nganga. She shuddered. Witch doctors and bones…

Arcilla looked over at Cousin Darinda. She was the one who still looked cool and poised despite the dust and heat, and Arcilla hated her for it. Darinda's courage and handling of pistol and rifle goaded Arcilla the most. Darinda refused to squeal when a large spider or snake appeared. Arcilla was certain this was deliberate, just to make her look more courageous before Peter and the other men on the expedition.

“Just once I'd like to see her scream and faint!” she said to herself. Naturally, she wouldn't. Not the self-possessed Darinda Bley. Come to think of it, she was very much like her grandfather, Sir Julien Bley. A female Julien! Oh, save us! Arcilla threw her head back and laughed. She looked at Darinda again and saw her cousin watching her. Arcilla sat up straighter and smiled prettily at Peter as he rode past on a horse. Peter smiled and tipped his hat, then went on.

Arcilla looked back at Darinda, feeling smug. Darinda was looking straight ahead. She had no man now coquettishly strung on her leash. Not since she and Parnell had had a falling out. Parnell was deliberately keeping his distance from her, much to Arcilla's shock. Had he decided at last that Darinda was his cup of hemlock?

Rogan sat astride his horse, riding alongside Peter and Captain Ryan Retford to join the other officers of the Pioneer Column prepared to splash across the river on the northward push to Mashonaland.

The two hundred pioneer recruits, who had been personally selected by Frank Thompson to form the core of the new colony, were lined up along the river. The men had traveled by train from Kimberly, then ridden here to the dusty camp on the edge of Bechuanaland, a British protectorate. Like soldiers, the men waited to be addressed by the British officer Rhodes had arranged to send up from the Cape. They waited to hear the final flourish of trumpets to initiate the long-awaited expedition into the land of the Zambezi.

Peter had told him that Mr. Rhodes was not with the Company
leaders who would command the pioneer trek. A political crisis unfolding at Capetown had required Rhodes to take over the reins of Cape government as Prime Minister. He remained in Kimberly, his financial and political power base, located two hundred miles south of the Motloutsi River.

Rogan maneuvered his horse along the column, feeling relieved that the men looked capable. Garbed in tough brown corduroy trousers and digger hats, they sported new rifles. He noticed among the Englishmen that there were some Cape Afrikaners, Dutch, among them, all eager to begin the colony near Mount Hampden. The pioneers included doctors, engineers, ministers, military men, bakers, butchers, as well as the gold miners and farmers, all anxious to stake out their land claims provided by the Royal Charter.

“Can't say Frank Thompson hasn't chosen the lot well. We even have some cricketers,” Peter said cheerfully. “Nothing like a jolly game of cricket, you know. We've a Jesuit priest as well.”