The eastern Transvaal, South Africa, 1902
‘It amazes me how you’ve stayed alive so long,’ Claire said, looking down at a naked Blake.
Blake opened his eyes. ‘What kept you?’
He sounded cool, but she knew he was surprised to see her. Blake was lying on his back, on a large flat rock by the side of the river, basking like a lizard in the still-warm afternoon sun. He made no move to cover his nakedness. Claire sat astride a new horse, with Bluey tethered to hers. She had swapped her second-hand dress for more practical men’s clothing, once more.
‘Aren’t you going to get dressed?’ she asked.
‘Your Boer friend, Hermanus, showed up this morning and stole my uniform, though he kindly left me my empty pistol. He’s looking for you, just like the British are. I told him I had no idea where you had gone. Where did you get to?’
‘I slipped away without you waking and now I was able to ride right up to you while you were asleep. It’s a wonder you weren’t killed by the Boers years ago.’
‘Who says I was asleep this time?’
She made no attempt to avert her eyes, although she was pointedly not looking at that part of his body, at least not now that she’d had a good eyeful already.
‘A gentleman would have covered himself – if he was aware of a lady approaching.’
‘A lady wouldn’t have come this close without announcing herself. Besides, I don’t think it’s a gentleman you’re after.’
She raised her nose at him. ‘Who says I’m after anything?’
‘You came back. And you said it yourself, you need help getting through the bush to Lourenço Marques. You won’t need a gentleman for that trip; you need someone who knows where to cross the border without getting caught.’
Claire harrumphed and untied the calico bag attached to her saddle. She hated it when a man was right, but fortunately it didn’t happen often. However, as much as it pained her to admit it, she did need help right now. She was still alive because she knew her limitations as well as she knew her skills.
They would have to pass through dense bush inhabited with a menagerie of dangerous creatures, and she had never lived or worked in the malaria-ridden bush of the Transvaal. These treacherous lands were also home to bands of renegade Boers, bandits, poachers and fierce Swazi and Shangaan tribesmen. It was no place for a single woman, not even one of Claire’s calibre. Nathaniel’s map would take her even deeper into the bushveld, away from the main east–west road and railway route, and along a disused spur line. She would need the help of a man like Blake – his bravery, his brawn and his Broomhandle Mauser would all come in handy.
‘What I need is another horse, another gun and someone who knows how to use both,’ she said.
‘You’ve found the right bloke, Missus.’ Blake rolled off the rock and opened the bag. He nodded in satisfaction at the coarse woollen shirt, the moleskin trousers, riding boots and broad-brimmed hat.
‘It’s Miss.’ Claire wasn’t sure why she’d bothered to correct him.
Blake pulled on the trousers and slipped on the boots. The fit for both was close enough. ‘I’m pleased you brought civvy clothes. How did you pay for these?’
‘I stole them,’ she said. ‘We couldn’t have had you swanning about Portuguese East Africa in a British uniform.’
He raised his eyebrows as he buttoned up. Claire tugged on Bluey’s reins and pulled him up alongside her. Reaching into the holster on the saddle she withdrew a rifle and tossed it to Blake, who caught it one-handed. She let her eyes linger on his broad chest as he examined the weapon.
‘Holland & Holland double. I’m impressed you got away with this. Did you use your feminine charms?’
She frowned at his apparent lewdness. ‘Nothing of the sort. I found a trading store and the Greek storekeeper was dead drunk.’
Claire reached into her saddlebag and withdrew a leather bandolier stuffed with shiny fat brass cartridges for the rifle. ‘They’re .577 nitro express,’ she said, throwing him the belt. ‘One of those rounds will stop an elephant.’
Blake caught the belt and slung it over his arm and pulled the leather-covered recoil cushion of the big hunting rifle to his shoulder. He sighted down the barrels. ‘You do know your weapons and ammunition. It’s good for shooting dangerous game but you’ve got to be close, less than a hundred yards for an accurate shot.’
‘There will be plenty of dangerous game where we’re going.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Blake paused, and seemed to be weighing up his options. ‘Look, I don’t know what your game is, but it looks like I’m out of the war for now. If I get you to Lourenço Marques in one piece, will you come with me to the British Consulate and sort out this mess Walters landed me in?’
‘I will,’ she said.
Blake nodded. ‘Then you’ve got yourself a marksman and a horseman.’
Claire smiled and tossed him a box of bullets. ‘Oh, and I got you some 7.65-millimetre rounds for your Broomhandle Mauser.’
He grinned. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘This is business, Mr Blake. Nothing more, nothing less. You get me to LM and I’ll put in a good word for you with the British. That’s it.’
‘Fine by me,’ he said, pulling his new hat lower down over his eyes to shield them from the afternoon sun.
They rode until it became dark and Blake lit a fire to keep the lions away. He judged them to be far enough from any road or the rail line to take the risk.
‘What’s it like, the bush, where you patrol?’ she asked him from across the flames.
‘Uncle Paul Kruger proclaimed the whole area a reserve in 1899. It’s full of game. We won’t go hungry down there, but it’s dangerous country. Plenty of lion, as well. We should be able to make it through the worst of the bush in a couple of days. Once we’re across the Lebombo ranges – the border with Portuguese East Africa – we’ll cut south again down to the railway line and the road to LM.’
Claire nodded. Blake stared into the fire, silent. He was a handsome brute, she thought, but there was more to him than just another hard-drinking, foul-mouthed soldier. He clearly had sympathy for the innocents in this conflict, and no matter the reason, he had already risked his life to save her. She remembered what he had said about fighting for his fellow soldiers – his mates – rather than for a cause. That was nice. She was now fighting for her survival, and for money, and she wondered which was the greater evil, risking all to steal something that didn’t belong to you, or risking your life for a cause you didn’t truly believe in.
‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked after a while.
‘A man can’t go through life branded as a criminal, or worse, a coward.’
‘Isn’t it better to be a live coward than a dead hero?’
‘Ah. Now you’re talking about life and death,’ he said. ‘That’s a different thing altogether. I’ve seen too many good men go to their death because they wanted to be a hero. The word means nothing to me. There’s nothing wrong with turning and running if it’s the sensible thing to do. That’s how the Boers fight and they’re damn good at it. Fire a few shots then melt away.’
‘Well, you’re not fighting any more, so it’s academic.’
‘True, but something tells me I shouldn’t be hanging this up just yet,’ Blake said, slapping the Holland & Holland by his side.
They slept but woke before dawn to the sound of a pair of male lions calling to each other from either side of their little camp. They hurriedly packed and rode away, and reached the Crocodile River, upstream from Komatipoort, at noon. The river was about fifty yards wide, swirling and brown. Blake dismounted and led Bluey down to the sandy bank. He could see in the shallows how the bottom dropped away steeply.
‘Too deep to ford,’ he said.
‘There must be a bridge nearby.’
‘At Komatipoort, but there’s a blockhouse there, manned by our lads. Can you swim?’
Claire bit her bottom lip, then nodded. She was not a confident swimmer, but she did not want to show weakness in front of the Australian.
‘I’ll go across first with my horse, then come back for you.’
‘I’ll be just fine.’
Blake shrugged then walked about fifty yards upstream, scanning the bank with his eyes.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Drag marks.’
‘What sort of drag marks?’
‘Crocodiles. A croc drags his tail when he walks in and out of the water.’ He walked a few paces, stopped and pointed. ‘Yep. Here, see?’
Claire joined him and stared down at the prints in the mud and the squiggly trail the tail had made.
‘Get your rifle out and cover me. Watch for the eyes – that’s all you’ll see of it, if you’re lucky.’
‘If you’re lucky, you mean.’
Blake sat down on the sand and pulled off his boots. He tied them to Bluey’s saddle and unbuttoned his shirt. He started to undo his trousers, then appeared to think better of it.
‘Don’t stop on my account, Mr Blake, I shan’t watch,’ Claire said, turning away, ‘this time at least.’
Blake shrugged again and undid the fly buttons. He tied his clothes into a bundle and secured them to the saddle as well. Then he took the hunting rifle from its bucket and grabbed Bluey’s reins with the same hand that held the weapon, and plunged into the water without hesitation.
Claire turned back, scanned the river for crocodiles and secretly marvelled at how easy he made the task of swimming the river appear.
She averted her eyes when he started to emerge from the water, but not before sneaking a peek at his body. Broad shoulders, muscled buttocks. It was just as well he was too far away to see the colour in her cheeks.
‘Decent now,’ he called.
She looked up and saw he had his trousers and boots on. He had dried himself with his shirt and it was now draped across his horse’s saddle, drying. The hunting rifle looked like a toy in his big hands. His normally wavy black hair was plastered flat, making his face look less wild, more sleek and refined.
‘Your turn to look away, now, Mr Blake.’
He turned.
Claire stripped down to her stolen chemise and bloomers, rolled her riding clothes into a bundle and fixed it to the saddle as Blake had done. She also tied her new Mauser rifle high on the saddle. She waded into the water, but her horse was less willing than Blake’s. She doubled back and, looking down, noticed how the silk bloomers clung to her thighs. ‘Don’t turn just yet.’ She finally coaxed the horse into the water. ‘All right, Mr Blake.’
Claire tried hard not to panic, but as she began to swim she couldn’t help but swallow mouthfuls of river water as her horse thrashed about. The third time it happened, she coughed wretchedly and at that moment the horse whinnied and tossed its head. The movement pulled her down again. She struck out wildly with her free arm and eventually got her head above water. ‘I’m all right,’ she called, but she felt herself beginning to lose control.
*
Blake turned and saw that Claire was having a hard time of it right from the start. Occasionally her head dipped below the water’s surface and, when she re-emerged, she coughed and spluttered. He took a few steps closer to the water’s edge.
Blake laid the rifle down on the sand and started to pull his boots off again.
‘I’m fine,’ she repeated.
Blake ignored her and waded into the water up to his knees. Then he stopped, swore, and turned and ran back up the bank.
He scooped up the rifle.
‘What is it?’ Claire called.
Blake brought the heavy rifle up into his shoulder in one fluid movement and pulled the trigger. The rifle kicked his shoulder and a geyser of water erupted not six feet from Claire’s face. She shrieked and flailed her arms faster. In the process he saw that the wet leather reins had slipped from her hand.
‘Crocodile!’ he yelled.
Blake had been tracking the beast’s eyes, but now they were gone. He doubted he had hit it with his first shot. It would have seen the horse and would be diving now.
‘Forget the horse, Claire. Swim!’
He paced down the bank and saw the snout break the surface near the horse’s rump. Blake fired again, sending up another spout of water. The bandolier of ammunition was tied to the saddle.
The gunfire had spooked Claire’s horse and the frightened animal thrashed in the water. Claire went under again.
Blake dropped the rifle, ran down the bank and dived into the water. When he broke the surface he saw that the horse was between him and Claire. The crocodile appeared again, but this time, to Blake’s horror, the killer was suddenly behind Claire.
Blake struck out for her, cutting off the horse. The confused animal turned and started swimming alongside Blake, towards Claire. Blake grabbed the horse’s mane and let it carry him towards her. Claire stopped swimming and looked around.
‘Keep going!’ Blake commanded.
‘Something brushed my leg!’ she screamed, her mouth filling with water as she slipped below the surface.
Blake reached across the saddle, grabbed the Mauser and then kicked away from the horse. He flailed his way towards her. ‘I’m coming!’
He was aware of the crocodile’s bulk off to his right now, creating a mini bow wave as it effortlessly navigated its interception course towards the floundering woman. Blake reached Claire first, though, and trod water by her side. He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her to the surface. ‘Swim, damn it,’ he ordered her, and thrust her towards the bank. He followed her in until his feet touched the sandy bottom.
Blake turned and saw the eyes again. He backed up the bank, but stumbled and fell over Claire who was on all fours, coughing and retching up river water.
Blake rolled over and worked the bolt action of Claire’s rifle as the crocodile propelled itself from the water, jaws wide again.
The rifle was still by his hip but Blake pulled the trigger and the Mauser jumped in his hands. The bullet entered the soft flesh of the crocodile’s upper jaw and exited out the top of its snout. Its head snapped to one side and the reptile rolled back into the water.
Blake used the weapon to help himself stand. His hands were shaking. He walked unsteadily up the bank.
Claire got to her feet and was staring at him, mouth half open. The colour had drained from her face. He dropped the Mauser and folded her into his arms. They held each other tightly.
‘It’s all right now,’ he said.
As his heart rate slowed he became aware of the heat of her body, the hard nipples pressed against his chest through the wet silk. It had been too long since he had held a woman. Just the feel of her made him feel better, made him want her.
Seeming to remember herself, Claire stiffened in his embrace and placed her palms on his chest. ‘Please! Mr Blake,’ she coughed again. ‘Thank you, but excuse me!’
She turned and stormed off up onto the grassy bank. She sat down and drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. Blake stood on the sand, hands on his hips. He heard splashes and turned to see Claire’s horse disappear beneath the surface of the water.
Blake retrieved Claire’s sodden bundle of clothes which had come loose during the attack and snagged on the branch of a sycamore fig tree overhanging the water. He carried them back to where she sat. ‘At least we didn’t lose these. Let’s get going.’
She looked up at him, took a deep breath, and nodded. Blake saw that tears had started to brim in her eyes.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
Claire looked away from him as though embarrassed by her show of weakness.
‘I love horses. It’s my dream to have a big farm, a stud, and breed them, one day.’ She looked at the river where her mount had vanished. The tears began to flow.
Blake came to her and took her in his arms, and she sobbed into his chest.