The Karasberge, German South West Africa, 1906
‘What are you looking at?’ the Schutztruppe guard asked Liesl in German.
Liesl rolled over in the sand, onto her belly, but she felt the man’s fingers on her forearm, biting into her flesh. She was fluent in German and despite his order she was not going to let him see what she had been looking at.
‘Let me see.’
She tried to resist, but her hands were tied together with rope and her ankles were manacled and chained to the wheel of a wagon. She had no blanket, no cover against the elements, and Liesl thought she was the coldest she had ever been – until then.
The soldier grabbed a handful of her hair, wrenched her head back, and forced her to roll over. He set down his rifle and his hands roamed over her breasts, under her jacket and between her thighs. She tried to scream but he put a palm over her mouth and drew his bayonet, holding the blade against her neck.
‘If you scream I will kill you.’
She blinked away tears and he found the photograph.
‘A white man?’
She sneered at his outrage and the guard slapped her face and spat on her.
*
For three days Blake rode at Jakob Morengo’s side as the Black Napoleon drew von Deimling’s forces deeper into the eastern Karasberge, teasing them with occasional glimpses of his men on ridge tops, infuriating them with the odd volley of fire and a casualty here and there.
Blake chafed at the rebel leader’s insistence that they stick to the plan, and that did not involve Blake riding off on a solo mission to rescue Liesl from the Germans.
‘Will we go for her today?’ Blake asked Morengo on the dawn of the fourth day as they paused at a place where water had pooled in a shaded chasm, to allow their horses to drink and the men to refill their water bottles.
‘Now we leave the Germans and we circle around them and position ourselves on the road to Keetmanshoop,’ Jakob said as he broke off half a stick of biltong and handed it to Blake.
Blake took the salty dried gemsbok and chewed on it. ‘What makes you think they’re ready to turn back?’
‘They have wounded, and their supplies are limited. The German commander will want to return and report a victory, that he has routed us and our remnants have fled their military might. He knows he won’t catch me or my people in these mountains.’
‘You seem sure.’
Morengo shrugged. ‘There is no such thing as surety in warfare, you should know that.’
Blake nodded.
‘And,’ Morengo continued, ‘you should know I could not allow you to risk capture by heading off on your own after Liesl. I know the Germans. They would not risk sending their doctor and their wounded back to Keetmanshoop alone, or with a light escort, but nor can the Schutztruppen live out here indefinitely. This is a good plan that you and I hatched together, Blake; you must stay the course. Liesl is of my blood and I care for her as well.’
Blake knew Morengo was right, and the fact that he had not ridden off in hot pursuit of Liesl either did not mean that Jakob cared less for his niece than Blake thought. Morengo had not earned his German nickname by being an impetuous romantic.
They rode hard all that day, down out of the rocky hills onto the flat desert, skirting the range and looping north and westwards. By late afternoon they could see an orange dust cloud hanging long and low in the distance, backlit by the setting sun.
Jakob called a halt and the Nama settled in between low dunes covered with scrubby, hardy grass. The night passed slowly, the temperature below freezing as men and horses huddled close to each other for warmth. The fighters could not afford to make a fire as the flames would have been easily seen by German pickets. Blake saw the warm glow of campfires on the horizon and envied his enemies.
He lay on his back, his horse blanket pulled up over his nose, and looked up at the night sky ablaze with stars. There was so much beauty in this place, and the same infinite supply of bloodshed and sadness. All the same, his heart had been captured by this wide open land despite, or perhaps because of its attendant danger.
Liesl was out there, hopefully still alive and inviolate, and if she had the courage to fight for her people and their freedom then it was not for him to run away. He cared for her, but he found his thoughts returning to the red-haired woman who had been seen in Upington between his forays in and out of the desert.
What if it was Claire?
He had guessed she might return to German South West Africa, where she had spent time before heading to South Africa. She would have a hard time getting a wagon load of gold into some European port, he imagined, but she was well connected in Germany’s African colony and would have had connections on the docks thanks to her first husband, who had run a shipping company. He was sure she could have smuggled old Paul’s treasure into Lüderitz Bay by greasing the right palms.
It was ironic, he thought, that at some point when the fighting died down Jakob would pay him for the horses, guns and ammunition, with gold Blake may have helped steal.
There was a squeak of feet on sand behind his head and Blake rolled over, shrugging off the blanket, his finger already on the trigger of the Lee Enfield. He’d learned in his war against the Boers that a rifle could seize up from frost on the open veld and sleeping with your weapon meant it was warm and ready.
‘It’s me,’ Jakob whispered.
‘Are we moving?’ Blake asked.
‘No,’ said the rebel leader. ‘I wanted to talk.’
Blake set his rifle down. ‘What about?’
‘Liesl.’
‘I hope she’s still alive,’ Blake said.
‘So do I. You care for her.’ It wasn’t a question and Blake didn’t answer, so Jakob carried on. ‘As do I. We will find her, at the rear of the column, and if we can, we will rescue her. But if she is chained to a wagon, we will not take the time to break her bonds while the Germans regroup. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Blake said.
‘Do you understand that I cannot jeopardise the lives of the majority for the sake of one person?’
Blake looked into those eyes, as cold as the night air. ‘I do.’
‘Then you will not take part in the morning’s attack on the column.’
‘What?’ Blake was taken aback.
‘You are a good shot, Blake, you proved that in the mountains. However, I cannot let the Germans see that a white man is riding with me. Von Deimling will take casualties, maybe lose some wagons and supplies to us, but if he sees you he will be duty-bound to report a foreigner fighting with the Nama. The Germans will come for you, and for me, instead of returning to lick their wounds in Keetmanshoop and claiming a false victory.’
Blake bridled. He knew Jakob wanted him out of sight not just because of the colour of his skin, but because he was worried he might do something foolish in order to rescue Liesl. ‘Do you want me to leave?’
‘No. I want you to find a high spot, in the dunes, and cover us when we raid the wagons.’
Blake let out a long breath. ‘All right.’
The Nama broke camp an hour before dawn and circled around the Germans, who would take some time to get on the move. The rebels took up ambush positions two kilometres further on, in the direction of Keetmanshoop, hidden in the dunes.
Jakob waited until the column had moved past them. Blake lay next to him, just below the crest of a dune. ‘The sand is soft here,’ Jakob said.
Blake looked through his binoculars. He could see a German wagon driver at the end of the column savagely whipping his oxen. The supply wagons, still laden with enough food and ammunition for the long drive back, and burdened with artillery shells that had found no use, were making hard work of the soft surface. As usual, Jakob had enlisted the help of the land he lived in, and knew so well, in his fight against the enemy.
‘The escorts are moving out,’ Blake said. The German commander, von Deimling, probably realising progress would be slow on this section, had been smart enough to issue orders for small parties of Schutztruppen to range out to the flanks in search of any rebels who might be lying in wait.
‘Yes,’ Jakob said. ‘I sent two men ahead, and off to the right of the column. They should make themselves known some time soon.’
Blake was impressed. Jakob was a step ahead of the enemy, as always. He had let the entire column get past them, knowing that the Germans would not send their flankers out until they were already on the move, and now he had given them some bait.
Sure enough, they soon heard shots fired to the right of the column, and the Schutztruppen on horseback galloped off in pursuit of the two Nama who had just opened fire. The Germans who had been scouring the left flank cut through the column and joined their comrades on the right in pursuit of the pair of rebels who had set up the diversion.
‘Hendrik and Johan are two of my best men, on our fastest horses. The Germans will not catch them,’ Jakob said, smiling. He started to get up. ‘It is time. If Liesl is alive, I will find her and do my best to rescue her.’
Blake gave a reluctant nod. ‘I’ll move abreast of the wagons.’ He got up, slung his rifle and mounted his horse. Moving between the dunes, Blake allowed Bluey to gallop, then pulled him up within easy shot of the rearmost wagons. He dismounted, scaled the loose slope and set himself up with a sniper’s view of the floundering column below.
Jakob and his band mounted up, galloped over the crest of the dune and descended on the struggling wagons like vultures swooping down on a dying beast. Through his binoculars Blake could see that the wagon masters hadn’t spotted the dust cloud rising up like a gathering storm, and had no idea of the hell approaching them from behind.
The need for the Germans on the left flank to join their comrades on the right in pursuit of Hendrik and Johan had cut the column in two, and five supply wagons at the rear, those that had to wait for the Schutztruppen to pass in front of them, were now lagging even further behind. These were Jakob’s target.
Blake sighted down the barrel of his Lee Enfield, and with the practised ease and weary resignation of a blacksmith pounding a horseshoe or a clerk scratching in a ledger he worked the rifle’s bolt and took up the slack on the trigger.
The driver of the last wagon was the first to turn his head, perhaps on hearing the muffled yet insistent beat of hooves digging sand. It was the last gesture of the man’s life. Blake’s bullet took him from his seat and the oxen, momentarily spared the lash, slowed to a stop.
By the time the soldier sitting next to the fallen man realised what was happening, and tried to scrabble for his rifle, Jakob Morengo was galloping abreast of him, pistol drawn, and he shot the German through the head.
One after the other the gaggle of wagons was overtaken and the soldiers on board dispatched.
From his grandstand position Blake saw even more evidence of the Black Napoleon’s tactical genius. While these tail-end supply wagons had been struggling through soft sand, made even harder to negotiate by the fact that the rest of the column had already churned it, Blake could now see that the ground ahead quickly changed to a hard-packed rocky surface. Because of this, the horses and wagons that had already passed through the sandy patch had picked up speed and were throwing up a dust cloud that obscured their view of those behind them. Hendrik and Johan’s fire had spurred the rest of the train onwards at a gallop. As a result, the last five wagons were now half a kilometre behind.
Some of Morengo’s men had dismounted and were ransacking the wagons, cutting ropes and pulling off tarpaulins, unloading boxes and prising them open.
A wagon driver, wounded and mistaken for dead, got to his feet and found his rifle lying nearby. Shielded by a team of oxen he brushed the sand from his weapon and chambered a round. He was beginning to take aim at a Nama when Blake killed him with a shot through the chest.
Blake watched for other targets. One of Morengo’s men struck a flint and lit some desert grass. He touched the burning embers to some papers and held them, in turn, to a tarpaulin, and soon the first of the five looted wagons was burning.
The third-last wagon had a canvas cover. A rebel climbed up into the back of it and a knife blade appeared from inside, slashing open the cover. Two other men outside started ripping away the fabric, exposing what was inside.
People.
Blake set down his rifle and took up his binoculars. As the canopy came off he could see four or five men lying inside, bloodstained bandages showing they were wounded Schutztruppen, lying on stretchers. A soldier with a red cross armband stood and held up his hands.
The Nama fighter who had climbed into the wagon shot him.
Blake felt the bile rise in his chest. War was war, and no matter how right or wrong the cause, conflict brought forth both devils and angels. He closed his eyes for a second, but when he opened them he regretted having done so. The Nama on the back of the wagon swung his rifle around, pointed it down and shot a wounded German. Methodically, the man chambered another round, took aim again and killed another man on a stretcher. He carried on until he was out of helpless targets, then clambered over some boxes to get to the front of the wagon, where both he and Blake had just glimpsed movement.
Half-a-dozen mounted Schutztruppen, perhaps realising the column had been severed and worrying about the wagons at the rear, had wheeled around and were emerging from the dust cloud and bearing down on the rebels, most of whom were on foot and therefore easy prey.
A Nama man was shot dead before he could pick up his rifle from where it rested against a wagon.
Jakob Morengo, identifiable from his broad-brimmed black hat and suit, climbed onto his horse. Blake could see he was holding something, like a stick, in his hand. He rode up to one of his men who had just set fire to a wagon. The man passed Jakob a burning scrap of canvas. Blake didn’t know what the kaptein was up to and didn’t care for now, as he had targets.
Blake fired once at a rider, missed him, worked the Lee Enfield’s bolt and sent the man falling from his saddle with his second shot. He searched for another rider, but the five remaining Schutztruppen were among the rebels and it was difficult for Blake to get a clear shot at them.
He looked to the wagon, where the rebel had shot the medic. The same man was now firing at a German, but the trooper, firing from horseback, executed his revenge on the Nama, who fell among his victims. The rider carried on, searching for more rebels, but a figure stood up at the front of the formerly covered wagon; it was the person Blake and the executioner had both caught a glimpse of. Though she was wearing pants and a man’s top, Blake could tell immediately it was Liesl.
Blake stood, slung his rifle, jumped on his horse and thundered down the slope of the dune he’d been lying on. He rode hard towards the wagons.
*
Liesl had crawled to the far end of the wagon. ‘Don’t shoot me, I’m Nama,’ she cried in Afrikaans.
However, when she peeked around a box of medical supplies she saw that the man who had shot the medic and the prisoners, Frans, was no longer there. She looked over the side and saw Frans’ body lying in the sand but, she noticed, he had dropped his rifle on the wagon’s floor. Liesl crawled as close to the weapon as the chain tethering her would allow and, stretching her body over the boxes of supplies, she was just able to grab it by the sling. She pulled the rifle to her, turned it in her hands and placed the tip of the barrel against one of the links of the chain that had hobbled her ankles. She bent over, holding her shoulder against the butt, and pulled the trigger. The recoil knocked her backwards, but the chain broke. With her next shot she severed the chain that linked her to the wagon.
Liesl crawled to the dead medic and took a knife from a sheath on the man’s belt. Gripping the handle between her knees she sawed through the rope binding her wrists. As she worked she couldn’t help but see the lifeless eyes of the non-combatant, and the dead soldiers. As much as she hated the Schutztruppen she had been shocked by what Frans had done. His family had been captured by the Germans so she could only guess that he had slaughtered the wounded in revenge. What have we become? She felt sick.
Gunfire raged around her and men cried in pain and anger. Finally, Liesl’s hands were freed and she clambered to the front of the wagon. As horrific as the dead bodies were, she realised there were plenty of supplies here they could use. She rolled the dead driver from his seat and snatched up the reins of the bellowing ox team in one hand and the whip in the other. She cracked it in the air and the beasts, probably eager to get away from the tumult, turned to her command and set off.
A man in a big black hat galloped past and tossed a stick of dynamite into the bed of the wagon in front of her. He wheeled back and, brandishing a pistol, galloped across her front. ‘Uncle Jakob!’
He lowered his pistol and waved his hand vigorously at her. ‘Get down!’
Another German came riding out of the disappearing dust cloud in front of them; it seemed the rest of the column had all but forgotten the stranded wagons. It was the blond-haired doctor in the Landespolizei uniform, the one who had captured her and she had later seen treating the wounded men. He, too, was brandishing a pistol and he fired at Jakob.
The oxen had almost completed their turn. The doctor came up to the rear of the wagon, reined in his horse, jumped down from his saddle then climbed up onto the back of the slow-moving cart. He looked down at the men he had treated, all of whom were dead. ‘Mein Gott.’
Liesl dropped the whip and picked up Frans’ rifle.
The German pointed his pistol at her. ‘You . . . you killed these men in cold blood.’
The wagon swayed as the oxen completed their turn and picked up pace. The doctor looked down at the dead men again, his face ashen. Liesl brought the rifle up as far as her hip and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
The doctor stared at her again and pointed his pistol at her once more.
‘No!’ Liesl cried. ‘I didn’t. Don’t shoot me.’
‘You are Morengo’s niece. I heard you calling before.’
Liesl saw another horseman from the corner of her eye, but forced herself not to look at the man, who was galloping towards the wagon, out of sight of the doctor. As the horseman gained on them she saw it was Blake.
The doctor glared at her; his blue eyes, which should have been beautiful, looked frozen. ‘You murderess. You are coming with me.’
Blake rode up alongside the wagon and before the doctor could register and turn to check the noise behind him, Blake had leapt from his still-moving horse onto the wagon. He careened into the German, knocking him down and onto the corpses. The doctor shrieked. He started to get up and Blake punched him in the jaw, sending him falling backwards. Blake looked over his shoulder. There were more Schutztruppen heading their way and the rebels were fleeing.
‘This wagon’s too slow.’ Blake whistled to his horse.
The German doctor lay among his dead patients, seemingly unconscious.
‘Don’t shoot him,’ Liesl said, ‘he’s a doctor.’
‘I don’t do that sort of thing.’ Blake’s horse trotted up beside them. He held out his hand to her but she hesitated. ‘Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here. I’ll take you away from all this, back to Upington.’
Liesl had begun to reach out her hand when the wagon in front them, full of artillery ammunition, exploded.