War Cry. Wilbur Smith
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Birchinall was already warming up. They’re going for the quick kill: the middle-distance man breaks him then the sprinter runs him down. Good tactics. They might just work.
Leon looked at Manyoro. He was watching Simel intently, giving away no trace of emotion.
‘You see what he’s doing?’ said Leon, looking towards Sopwith, who had opened up a gap of the best part of fifty yards.
‘Of course.’
‘And will it work?’
Manyoro looked at the two runners out on the course then glanced across to Birchinall. ‘He certainly thinks so. He is singing his victory song before the lion has been killed.’
‘That’s never a wise thing to do.’
‘No, M’Bogo, it is not.’
Jonty Sopwith came round the final bend of the polo field and headed towards the finishing line at the end of the first lap, with the main mass of the settlers clustered in front of the clubhouse just ahead of him to his right. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the distant figure of Simel, barely passing the corner, half the length of the polo field behind him, falling further back with every stride.
‘Right, Sonny Jim, let’s see how you like this,’ Sopwith muttered. And then he kicked again, an athlete of Olympian quality revelling in his God-given ability.
Simel felt a shot of alarm when he saw this opponent speed up again. He did not seem to be tiring like a cheetah. On the contrary, he was gaining in strength. He heard a deep sigh, almost a groan, coming from his people on their side of the field which was quickly swallowed up by the shouts and cheers of all the white bwanas and their women.
Fighting the urge to try and keep pace, Simel told himself that all was not yet lost. He still felt as fresh as he had when the race had begun, and although the gap between him and the man in front was widening, still it was not even half the full distance around the field. As he ran past the whites a few of them shouted insults at him. The words meant nothing to him, for he did not speak English. But he did not have to. The looks on their faces, the waving of their fists and the way the men shouted and the women screamed at him bore an unmistakable stamp of hostility, even hatred.
Then a thought struck Simel. These people fear me. They are scared that I might be as good as them, or even better.
Though he showed no expression in his face, in his heart Simel smiled. For he knew that the white men were right to be afraid. All his life he had been ashamed of being so small, but now he had a chance to prove that he could do as much for his people as any man among them.
I am a Masai. Now I must show these people what that means.
In the clubhouse Saffron was jumping up and down with excitement and attracting pursed-lipped looks of disapproval from the women all around her as her high, piping voice shouted out encouragement to the Masai runner. She had a problem, however. It was very hard to see the race. There were too many grown-ups in the way.
Saffy had been told to stay with her mother and was positioned beside the chair in which Eva was sitting as calmly as she could so as to expend the minimum possible energy. As determined as she was not to let Leon treat her like an invalid or be made to stay at home, Eva could hardly disobey a doctor’s orders, even if her natural inclination was to leap to her feet and shout just as excitedly as her daughter for the little man who had been given the role of acting as her husband’s champion.
As the runners disappeared off towards the far end of the field, Saffron turned to Eva and begged her, ‘Please Mummy, may I go and stand by Daddy in the middle of the field?’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, my darling,’ said Eva, reaching out to take Saffron’s hand. ‘I don’t want you getting lost or trampled in the crowd. And I’m not sure Daddy really wants to have to worry about you when he’s trying to concentrate on the race.’
‘Oh, I can get through all those people!’ Saffron insisted, looking dismissively at the human barrier created by the grown-ups all around her. ‘And I promise I’ll be as good as gold with Daddy. I won’t be naughty at all.’ She fixed her huge blue eyes on her mother, almost daring her not to be charmed and repeated, ‘Please Mummy … please!’
Eva smiled. I pity any poor man who tries to resist those eyes, she thought, suddenly seeing an image of exactly how Saffron would look when she was grown into womanhood. I certainly can’t.
‘Do you absolutely promise me that you’ll go carefully?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Mummy,’ Saffron nodded with a look of the utmost sincerity.
‘And do you promise to be good and not to cause Daddy any trouble?’
‘Yes, Mummy.’
‘Very well then, you can go.’
‘Thank you, thank you!’ Saffron squealed, smothering her mother in kisses. ‘You are the kindest, nicest, sweetest mummy in the whole wide world!’
‘Oh, and one last thing …’
Saffron paused in mid-stride and turned back to Eva: ‘Yes?’
‘Tell Daddy not to worry about me. He needs to concentrate on his race. So tell him I’ve got a very comfortable chair and plenty of staff to look after me if I need anything. I will be quite all right. Can you remember all that?’
‘Daddy’s not to worry because you’ve got a comfy chair and everything’s all right.’
‘Very good. Now, be gone with you!’
Eva watched as her little girl disappeared into the crowd, fearlessly darting between the adults around her. Then she gave a sharp little sigh, closed her eyes and dropped her head for a moment as a sudden sharp stab of pain struck her, like a dart thrown at her forehead, hitting right above her eyes.
It’s just a little headache, she told herself as it was followed by a slight sensation of nausea. A migraine, probably. Nothing to worry about.
She thought for a second about sending one of the club’s staff to take a message to Leon and then immediately rejected the idea. No, I mustn’t bother him. He has other, much more important things on his mind.
Saffron sneaked under the rope and dashed across the track and onto the polo field before anyone could stop her. She paused for a second and looked around. It was only a week since she and Kippy had been jumping on this very same field, but it seemed like years ago. Everything looked so different now. There was a crowd of people clustered round a large tent, and she scanned them all in case she could see her father. Then she saw him a way off to one side, talking to Manyoro, and she realized she’d been looking at the enemy camp and scampered off in the right direction.
‘I see you, little princess,’ said Manyoro as he spotted Saffron running towards him. She stopped in her tracks, two or three paces away from him and, with the utmost seriousness replied, in Masai, ‘I see you, Uncle Manyoro.’
The tall, stately African’s face broke into a broad, affectionate smile, for he considered this little white girl just as much of a niece as any of his Masai brothers’ and sisters’ offspring.
‘Hello, Daddy,’ Saffron said, turning to her father.
‘Saffy!’ Leon exclaimed. He picked her up and swung her into the air, laughing as she squealed with excitement. He hugged her to his body, planting a kiss on the top of her head and then put her down on the ground.
‘So, what brings you here, eh?’ he asked.
‘Mummy said I could,’ said Saffron, wanting to establish that she had permission. ‘I couldn’t see the race from the clubhouse because of all the people in the way. But I promised Mummy I’ll be very, very good and won’t cause any trouble at all.’
‘Hmm … I doubt that somehow. So, tell me, how is Mummy feeling?’
Saffron