Nothing in sleepy Tasmania had prepared Luke for the melting pot that was Cape Town. So many nationalities, so many clashing cultures. The colony was a hotbed of tension, and the recent discovery of gold and diamonds only heightened this unrest.
War broke out soon after his arrival. If it had been a native uprising, Luke would have gladly fought for the Africans. Nothing angered him more than the appalling exploitation they suffered at the hands of their colonial rulers. In a battle between the Boers and the British, however, Luke felt no sympathy for either side. He spent his time in restless wandering, avoiding conflict zones and discovering all he could about this astonishing new country.
Luke roamed from the spectacular Drakensberg ranges in the east to the endless scrublands of the Great Karoo. From the Kalahari Desert in the north to the beaches of the dramatic Elephant Coast. He lived the life of a pioneering naturalist and adventurer. Climbing mountains. Canoeing the courses of wild rivers. Exploring the country’s vast underground cave systems – caves he’d read about in Binburra’s library. They contained bones of early humans. Daniel had called Africa the cradle of mankind, and Luke was thrilled to see it for himself. But however far-flung the mountain or remote the river, it was never far enough to escape his memories of home or his restless yearning for Belle.
Five years of lonely travels brought him to the little town of Nisopho, in the Transvaal. How Belle would love these wide plains, teeming with wildlife. Daniel, too. Though they wouldn’t like to see the farmers encroaching on the grasslands. Fencing in the waterholes. Fencing out the great herds. Slaughtering lions, leopards, cheetahs and wild dogs along the way.
At twenty-five years old, Luke finally knew what he wanted to do with his life. How often had Daniel said that the best way to protect the forest was to own the forest? These plains were as unlike Tasmania’s forests as they could possibly be, but the principle remained. Luke would buy up farms surrounding Nisopho and dedicate his life to protecting this savannah, just as Daniel had protected Binburra.
Luke drew rein at a rocky ridge atop of a hill. He breathed in the view. To the west lay an endless expanse of grassland, dotted with umbrella-shaped thorn trees. In the foreground lay the Zola River, a peacock-blue ribbon, winding its way through the shaly terrain. The midday sun burned hot in a cloudless sky, and the air shimmered with its heat. He could see forever.
Luke had grown to love this corner of the savannah. Its primal landscapes and the immense canopy of stars at night. The massive slate-grey thunderstorms that rolled in across the plains, bringing life-giving rains. The unique wildlife. Before him, a family of elephants bathed in the river. Herds of gemsbok, giraffe and zebra dotted the scene and, directly below, in the shadow of the knoll, dozed Dark Mane’s pride. It was always a relief to find these lions safe and well.
When he first came, two families of lions had lived here at Themba. Poachers slaughtered the river pride shortly after, even the cubs. Skins fetched high prices in Cape Town.
Then Dark Mane had arrived from the north, single-handedly deposing and killing the bad-tempered twin kings of the plains pride. He bore the trademark black mane and large body of a Kalahari lion. Luke had spent weeks tracking him, accustoming him to his presence, studying his behaviour. The new king was a fierce but fair leader, whose wives liked and respected him. Luke liked and respected him too. Spending time with the lions was one of his greatest joys. He had a special fondness for these mighty hunters, the apex predators of the African veldt, just as thylacines were the apex predators of Tasmania’s wilderness. A memory of the tiger cubs flashed across his mind’s eye: their bright eyes and whiskery noses. Were they alive, he wondered, living safely in their secret valley?
His chestnut colt shied when he caught the lions’ scent. Luke soothed him with his voice. Caesar snorted and pricked his ears towards the east, where a desperate scene was unfolding. A tall black man was running for the shelter of the stony knoll, racing like his life depended on it, strides swift and sure as a cheetah’s. In the distance, a group of mounted men rode in pursuit. It would be a matter of minutes before they caught him.
The posse wasn’t the only danger confronting the man. He was heading straight for the pride, who lay camouflaged behind a screen of low acacia trees. Luke spurred Caesar up and over the rocky embankment and down the other side, shouting as he went. The lions leapt to their feet, snarling and lashing their tails. The man stopped running when he spotted them, and glanced back over his shoulder. Then he kept on coming, more ready apparently to take his chances with the lions than with his pursuers. It took a brave man to face a pride on foot, whatever the reason.
Luke unslung his rifle and fired shots in the air. The lionesses and cubs turned tail and ran, scrambling into the scrub. Dark Mane stood his ground. He wasn’t afraid of Luke, but Luke was afraid. The armed men were almost upon them. Dark Mane was in as much danger as the fleeing man.
Luke shot over the lion’s head. Dark Mane still didn’t flinch, but it was too much for Caesar. The combination of lion and gunfire sent the colt into a rearing, plunging panic. Damn. It was all Luke could do to stay mounted, and he was losing precious seconds.
Luke regained control just as the man cannoned into the scrub. He stopped in front of Luke, chest heaving, coal-black skin slick with sweat. Luke sized him up: about his age, tall and thin, limbs lined with ropes of muscle. He carried a Zulu axe, its half-moon blade designed to hook an opponent’s shield. Luke knew now why he’d braved the lions. With courage and a weapon, he’d have half a chance.
Dark Mane roared and tossed his head about. Luke raised his rifle as the thunder of hooves grew louder. He shot at the ground beside the lion, but he still didn’t budge. Damn. If he was to chase Dark Mane off before the riders arrived, nothing but a full charge would do. Luke spurred Caesar forward, but the colt reared again, mad with fear. Luke leapt from his back.
Caesar galloped off, hooves raising puffs of dust as he tore away. Luke ran at Dark Mane, waving his rifle, shouting and whooping. At such close quarters, the king of the veldt was a terrifying sight. Half as big again as his lionesses, ten feet from tip to tail, four-feet tall at the shoulder and with teeth like ivory daggers. Dark Mane backed off a few feet and then propped, a defiant snarl on his lips.
Luke was rooted to the spot. There was something paralysing in the lion’s stare. He roared, and Luke could feel the blast of his breath. Dark Mane crouched low, grinding the ground. Bracing, balancing. The black tassel on his tail twitched. Everything screamed attack, yet Luke was frozen, captive in the lion’s golden gaze. He couldn’t raise his rifle to shoot, even if he wanted to.
With a bloodcurdling yell, the other man ran in, his axe raised. The spell was broken, and Luke joined in the charge. This was too much for the lion. He loped away, melting into the bush. Luke sagged with relief and shot his unlikely friend a grateful glance. There was no time for more. The mounted men were upon them.
As they drew their heaving horses to a halt, Luke recognised the lead rider. Herman Smit owned the Nisopho diamond mine. Grandly named the Superior Mine, it was an ugly assortment of pits and tailing dumps on the town’s eastern edge: mongrel diggings where half-starved workers scratched for small, flawed diamonds, poisoning the air and water in the process.
Herman unslung his rifle from the saddle and peered short-sightedly at Luke. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
Luke stepped forward so Herman could see him.
‘My apologies, Colonel Buchanan.’ Herman said as he lowered his weapon, doffed his hat, and changed from Afrikaans to English.
Luke acknowledged this courtesy with a nod. He knew firsthand the bitterness born by the Boers against the British, and vice versa. On arriving in Cape Town, he’d been mistaken for an Englishman, a hated rooinek, and was beaten half to death in a putrid laneway behind an Afrikaans-speaking bar. So he’d invented an alter ego – Colonel Lucas Buchanan from New South Wales. Inventing a title had worked for Henry Abbott. It worked for him too.
Luke told the Boers he’d volunteered on their side in the war. For the British, he was a decorated officer who’d fought with them. His wealth was sufficient to ward off questions and to garner admiration and acceptance wherever he went. It never ceased to amaze him how gullible people were.
Herman wiped droplets of sweat from his florid face with a handkerchief. A brilliant diamond shone beside the gold wedding band on his finger. ‘I caught this thieving Kaffir stealing rations.’ He gestured to his men. One rode forward, uncoiling a rope.
Luke raised his hand for the rider to stop. He glanced sideways at his companion, who was holding his ground, clutching the axe and glaring at the mine owner with murderous intent. Anyone who tried to take him would feel the bite of that axe, Luke had no doubt. He addressed the fugitive in Zulu.
‘These men pursue you with rifles for a few loaves of mealie bread?’
The man grinned. ‘Not a few loaves, baas. I emptied the whole storehouse and shared out the food, rotten as it was. We are meant to get board and five shillings a week, but we haven’t been paid in months. Men are starving at that fucking mine.’
Luke turned back to Herman, seeing instead a sneering Henry Abbott standing before him. ‘What do you intend to do with this man?’
‘Flog him, chain him. If he’s stolen a diamond, I’ll shoot him. He’s always been a troublemaker, this one.’
From the look on the black man’s face, there was little doubt he understood English. He raised his axe and the horsemen raised their rifles.
‘This is nothing to concern you, Colonel. Hand him over, we’ll be on our way and you can get on with your hunting.’
‘I will have this man for myself,’ said Luke. ‘If he’s such a troublemaker, you’ll be well rid of him.’
‘A troublemaker he may be, Colonel, but Tau is strong, and cost me a pound at a labour auction not two months ago.’
‘I’ll pay you four pounds for his contract. Come and collect it this evening.’
‘That is generous, Colonel, but I’m running out of men. How will I work my mine? Six have deserted this month. I can’t afford to let him go.’
‘Five pounds then.’ Luke gestured for Tau to follow him.
‘He may have stolen a diamond,’ called Herman. ‘We must search him.’
‘I shall search him myself,’ said Luke, wary of Tau’s flexing axe hand. ‘If I find a diamond, you may have both the man and stone back, and keep my five pounds.’ His tone brooked no argument. ‘And, for the record, I am not hunting. My lands are game reserves. I’d have you remember it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.’
The mine owner looked around in wonder. Luke was miles from nowhere, without horse, or men, or tools of any kind. If he wasn’t hunting, what on earth was he busy doing?
‘Good day to you, sir. I shall call upon you later.’ Herman saluted, wheeled his horse and led the riders away.
Luke and Tau trudged in through the compound gate. Luke had purchased a dozen farms around Nisopho, choosing the largest property, Themba, as his home. The historic gabled homestead was built by Dutch settlers who farmed the land in the 1700s. It boasted thick whitewashed walls and small shuttered windows designed to keep out the scorching summer heat.
A useful assortment of outbuildings surrounded the homestead, including a dozen mudbrick rondavels with thatched roofs. These traditional round huts once provided accommodation for bustling crowds of servants and farm workers. Now they stood almost empty. Luke had hired only two people: Lwazi, an elderly man who looked after the horses, and Sizani, a round, cheerful young woman who could read and write and who ran the house. She peered through the kitchen window as Luke showed Tau into one of the humbly furnished huts. It had sleeping mats, timber headrests and a few wooden cups and bowls on a bench.
Tau made a show of putting down his axe, a sign of trust. Luke filled a cup with bore water from the hand-pump outside and offered it to Tau. He gulped it down and fetched himself another.
‘Come up to the house when you’re ready,’ said Luke. ‘I’ll find you clothes and blankets and whatever else you need. If you want to leave, that’s up to you, but I could use a good man.’ He smiled in open admiration. ‘Somebody who isn’t afraid of lions.’
Tau returned the smile and Luke’s heart lifted.
‘I offer good wages, better than that fat kont wasn’t paying you.’
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Something passed between them: a common understanding transcending race and culture, a yearning for companionship between two lost young men.
‘I’ll stay, baas.’
‘Good. When you come to the house we’ll eat and discuss your duties.’
‘Yes, baas.’
‘Don’t call me baas. My name is Luke.’
Doubt flared in Tau’s eyes, the same doubt Luke himself had felt when Mr Campbell said ‘Call me Daniel’, all those years ago. An unheard-of presumption, and here in South Africa a thousand times more so. It was a lot to ask of Tau. Blacks had been shot for less, but it suddenly meant the world to have this man address him as an equal. ‘Please, Tau. Call me Luke.’
The answer came clear and proud, although it rolled awkwardly off Tau’s tongue. ‘Yes, Luke.’
The pair grinned at each other and shook hands, then clasped thumbs over thumbs in a traditional expression of respect and friendship. For the first time since Bear died, Luke didn’t feel alone.