Текст книги "Leopard Hunts in Darkness"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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He is a marvellously smelly old Shangane poacher, he must be eighty years old and his youngest wife is seventeen and presented him with twins last week. He is a complete rogue, with a tremendous sense of humour, and a taste for Scotch whisky two tots of Glenlivet and he gets talkative.

We were up in the Vumba mountains, just the two of us in camp, and after the second tot he let it slip that he had been offered two hundred dollars a leopard-skin. They would take as many as he could catch, and they would supply the steel spring traps. I gave him another tot, and learned that the offer had come from a very well-dressed young black, driving a government Land Rover. My old Shangane told the man he was afraid that he would be arrested and sent to gaol, but he was assured that he would be safe. That he would be under the protection of one of the great chiefs in Harare, a comrade minister who had been a famous warrior in the bush war and who still commanded his own private army." There was a hard cardboard folder on the camp-bed.

Sally-Anne fetched it and placed it in Craig's lap. Craig opened it. The top sheet was a full list of the Zimbabwe Cabinet. Twenty-six names, each with the portfolio set out beside it.

"We can narrow that down immediately very few of the Cabinet did any actual fighting," Sally-Anne pointed out. "Most of them spent the war in a suite at the Ritz in London or in a guest dacha on the Caspian Sea." She sat down on the cushion beside Craig, reached across and turned to the second sheet.

"Six names." She pointed. "Six field commanders." still too many," Craig murmured, and saw that Peter Fungabera's name headed the six.

"We can do better," Sally-Anne agreed. "A private army.

That must mean dissidents. The dissidents are all Matabele. Their leader would have to be of the same tribe." She turned to the third sheet. On it was a single name.

"One of the most successful field commanders. Matabele.

Minister of Tourism, and the Wildlife Department comes under him. It's an old chestnut, but those set to guard a treasure, are too often those who loot it. It all fits." Craig read the name aloud softly, "Tungata Zebiwe," and found that he didn't want it to be true. "But he was with me in the Game Department, he was my ranger-"

"As I said, the keepers have more opportunity to despoil than any other."

"But what would Sam do with the money? The master poacher must be coming millions of dollars. Sam lives a very frugal life, everybody knows that, no big house, no expensive cars, no gifts for women nor privately owned land no other expensive indulgences."

"Except, perhaps, the most expensive of all," Sally-Anne demurred quietly. Tower." Craig's further protestation died unuttered, and she nodded. "Power. Don't you see it, Craig? Running a private army of dissidents takes money, big, big money." Slowly the pattern was shaking itself into place, Craig admitted. Henry Pickering had warned him of an approaching Soviet-backed coup. The Russians had supported the Matabele ZIPRA faction during the war, so their candidate would almost certainly be Matabele.

Still Craig resisted it, clinging to his memories of the man who had been his-friend, probably the finest friend of his entire lifetime.

He remembered the essential decency of the man he had then known as Samson Kumalo, the mission-educated Christian of integrity and high principles, who had resigned with Craig from the Game Department when they svspected their immediate superior of being involved in 4*poaching ring. Was he now the master poacher himself? The man of fine compassion who had helped Craig when he was crippled and broken to take his single possession, his yacht, with him when he left Africa. Was he now the power-hungry plotter?

"He is my friend, "Craig said.

"He was. But he has changed. When last you saw him, he declared himself your enemy," Sally' Anne pointed out.

"You told me that yourself." Craig nodded, and then suddenly remembered the search of his deposit box at the hotel by the police on high orders. Tungata must have suspected that Craig was an agent of the World Bank, would have guessed that he had been detailed to gather information on poaching and power-plotting all that could have accounted for his unaccountably violent opposition to Craig's plans.

"I hate it," Craig muttered. "I hate the idea like hell, but I think that you just may be right."

"I am sure of it."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to Peter Fungabera with what evidence I have." "He will smash Sam," Craig said, and she came back quickly, "Tungata is evil, Craig, a despoiler!" He is my friend." He was your friend," Sally' Anne contradicted him. "You you don't know what don't know what he has become happened to him in the bush. War can change any human being. Power can change him even more radically."

"Oh God, I hate it." "Come with me to Peter Fungabera. Be there when I put the case against Tungata Zebiwe." Sally'Arme took his hand, a small gesture of comfort.

Craig did not make the mistake of returning her grip.

"I'm sorry, Craig." She squeezed his fingers. 11 truly am," she said, and then she took her hand away again.

eter Fungabera made time for them in the early morning, and they drove out together to his home in the Macillwane Hills.

A servant showed them through to the general's office, a huge sparsely furnished room that overlooked the lake and had once been the billiard room. One wall was covered with a blown-up map of the entire territory. It was flagged id with multi-coloured markers. There was a long table under the windows, covered with reports and despatches and parliamentary papers, and a desk of red African teak in the centre of the uncarpeted stone floor.

Peter Fungabera rose from the desk to greet them. He was barefooted, and dressed in a simple white loin-cloth tied at the hip. The bare skin of his chest and arms glowed as though it had been freshly oiled, and the muscles moved beneath it likea sackful of living cobras. Clearly Peter Fungabera kept himself in a warrior's peak of fighting condition.

"Excuse my undress," he smiled as he came to greet them, "but I really am more at ease when I can be completely African." There were low stools of intricate carved ebony set in front of the desk.

"I will have chairs brought," Peter offered. "I have few white visitors here."

"No, no." Sally-Anne settled easily on one of the stools.

"You know I am always pleased to see you, but I am due in the House at ten -hundred hours-" Peter Fungabera hurried them.

"I'll come to it without wasting time," Sally-Anne" agreed. "We think we know who the master poacher is." Peter had been about to seat himself at the desk, but now he leaned forward I'with his fists on the desktops and his gaze was sharp and dhnanding.

"You said I had trily to give you the name and you would smash him," Sally-Anne reminded him, and Peter nodded.

"Give it to me," he ordered, but Sally-Anne related her sources and her deductions, just as she had to Craig. Peter Fungabera heard her out in silence, frowning or nodding thoughtfully as he followed her reasoning. Then she gave her conclusion, the last name left on her list.

"Comrade Minister Tungata Zebiwe," Peter Fungabera repeated softly after her, and at last he sank back onto his own chair and picked up his leather, covered swa-wer-stick from the desk. He stared over Sally-Anne's head at the map-covered wall, slapping the baton into the rosy pink palm of his left hand.

The silence drew out until Sally-Anne had to ask, "Well?" Peter Fungabera dropped his gaze to her face again.

"You have chosen the hottest coal in the fire for me to pick up in my bare hands," he said. "Are you sure that you have not been influenced by Comrade Zebiwe's treatment of Mr. Craig Mellow?"

"That is unworthy," Sally-Anne told him softly.

"Yes, I suppose it is." Peter Fungabera looked at Craig.

"What do you think?"

"He was my friend, and he has done me great kindness."

"That was once upon a time," Peter pointed out. "Now he has declared himself your enemy."

"Still I like and admire him."

"And yet-?" Peter prodded gently.

"And yet, I believe Sally-Anne may be on the right spoor' Craig conceded unhappily.

Peter Fungabera stood up and crossed the floor silently to stand before the vast wall-map.

"Me whole country is a under-box," he said, staring at the coloured flags. "The Matabele are on the point of a rebellion. Here! Here! Here! Their guerrillas are gathering in the bush." He tapped the map. "We have been forced to nip the plotting of their more irresponsible leaders who were moving towards armed revolt. Nkomo is in forced retirement, two of the Matabele Cabinet members have been arrested and charged with high treason. Tungata Zebiwe is the only Matabele still in the Cabinet. He commands enormous respect, even outside his own tribe, while the Matabele look upon him as their only remaining leader. If we were to touch him-2

"You are going to let him go!" Sally-Anne said hopelessly. "He will get away with it. So much for your socialist paradise. One law for the people, another for the-"

"Be silent, woman," Peter Fungabera ordered, and she obeyed.

He returned to his desk. "I was explaining to you the consequences of hasty action. Arresting Tungata Zebiwe could plunge the entire country into bloody civil war. I didn't say that I would not take action, but I certainly would do nothing without proof positive, and the testimony of independent witnesses of impeccable impartiality to support my actions." He was still staring at the map across the room. "Already the world accuses us of planning tribal genocide against the Matabele, while all we are doing is maintaining the rule of law, and searching for a formula of accommodation with that warlike, intractable tribe. At the moment Tungata Zebiwe is our only reasonable and conciliatory contact with the Matabele, we cannot afford to destroy him lightly." He paused, and Sally Anne broke her silence.

"One thing I have not mentioned, but which Craig and I have discussed. If Tungata Zebiwe is the poacher, then he is using the profits to some special end. He gives no visible evidence of extravagance, but we know there is a connection between him and dissidents." Peter Fungabera's expression had set hard, and his eyes were terrible. "If it's ZeNwel I'll have him he promised himself more than h&. "But when I do, I'll have proof for the world to see and he will not escape me."

"Then you had best move pretty damned quickly," Sally Anne advised him tartly.

t23 r ell, you've picked a good time to sell." The Tyacht,broker stood in Bawu's cockpit and ! looked nautical in his double-breasted blazer and marine cap with golden anchor device seven hundred dollars from Bergdorf Goodman. His tan was even and perfect sunlamp at the N.Y. Athletic Club. There was a fine web of wrinkles around his piercing blue eyes not from squinting through a sextant nor from tropical suns on far oceans and coral beaches, Craig was certain, but from perusing price-tags and cheque figures.

"Interest rates right down people are buying yachts again.

It was like discussing the terms of a divorce with a lawyer, or the arrangements with a funeral director. Bawu had been part of his life for too long.

"She is in good nick, all tight and shipshape, and your price is sensible. I'll bring some people to see her tomorrow "Just make sure I'm not here, "Craig warned him.

J understand, Mr. Mellow." The man could even sound like an undertaker.

she Levy also sounded like an undertaker when Craig telephoned. However, he sent an office messenger down to the marina to collect the first three chapters Craig had completed in Africa. Then Craig went to lunch with Henry Pickering.

"It really is good to see you." Craig had forgotten how much he had grown to like this man in just two short meetings.

"Let's order first," Henry suggested, and decided on a bottle of the Grands Ech6zeaux.

"Courageous fellow," Craig smiled. "I am always too afraid to pronounce it in case they think I am having a sneezing fit."

"Most people have the same reluctance. Must be why it is the least known of the world's truly great wines keeps the price down, thank God." Appreciatively they nosed the wine and gave it the attention it deserved. Then Henry set his glass down.

"Now tell me what you think of General Peter Fungo, hera," he invited.

"It's all in my reports. Didn't you read them?"

"I read them, but tell me just the same. Sometimes a little thing may come out in conversation that just didn't get into a report."

"Peter Fungabera is a cultivated man. His English is remarkable his choice of words, his power of expression but it all has a strong African accent. In uniform he looks likea general officer in the British army. In casual clothes he looks like the star of a T! series, but in a loin-cloth he looks what he really is, an African. That's what we tend to forget with all of them. We all know about Chinese inscrutability, and British phlegm, but we seldom consider that the black African has a special nature "There! Henry Pickering murmured smugly. "That wasn't in your reports. Go on, Craig."

"We think them sloxy'-moving by our own bustling standards, and we do not realize that it is not indolence but the deep consideration they bring to any subject before acting. We consider them simple and direct when really they are the most secretive and convoluted of people, more tribally clannish than any Scot. They can maintain a blood feud over a hundred years, like any Sicilian-" Henry Pickering listened intently, prodding him with a leading question only when he slowed. Once he asked, "Something that I still find a little confusing, Craig the subtle difference between the term Matabele, Ndebele and Sindebele. Can you explain?"

"A

Frenchman calls himself a Francais, but we call him a Frenchman. A Matabele calls himself an Ndebele, but we call him a Matabele."

"Ah" Henry nodded, "and the language he speaks is Sindebele, isn't itr "That's right. Actually the word Matabele seems to have acquired colonial connections since independence " Their talk ranged on easily, relaxed and free-flowing, so that it was with a start of surprise that Craig realized that they were almost the last party left in the restaurant and that the waiter was hovering with the bill.

"What I was trying to say," Craig concluded, "is that colonialism has left Africa with a set of superimposed values. Africa will reject them and go back to its own."

"And probably be the happier for it," Henry Pickering finished for him. "Well, Craig, you have certainly earned your wage. I'm truly pleased that you are going back. I can see that you will soon be our most productive field agent in that theatre. When do you return?"

"I only came to New York to pick up a cheque." Henry Pickering laughed that delightful purring laugh of his. "You hint with a sledgehammer I shudder at the ect of a direct demand from you." He paid the bill prosp and stood up. "Our house lawyer is waiting. First you sign away your body and soul and then I give you drawing rights up to the total of five million dollars." The interior of the limousine was silent and cool, and the suspension ironed out most of the trauma of the New York street surfaces.

"Now enlarge on Sally-Anne Jay's conclusions regarding the head of the poaching ring," Henry invited.

"At this stage, I don't see any alternative candidate for the master poacher, perhaps even the leader of the dissidents." Henry was silent for a moment. Then he said, "What do you make of General Fungabera's reluctance to act?"

"He is a prudent man, and an African. He will not rush in. He will think it out deeply, lay his net with care, but when he does act, I think we will all be surprised at how devastatingly swift and decisive it will be."

"I would like you to give General Fungabera. all the assistance you can. Full co-operation, please, Craig."

"You know Tungata was my friend."

"Divided loyalty?"

"I

don't think so, not if he is guilty."

"Good! My board is very happy with your achievements so far. I am authorized to increase your remuneration to sixty thousand dollars per annum."

"Lovely," Craig grinned at him. "That will be a big help on the interest payment on five million dollars." t was still light when the cab dropped Craig at the gates of the marina'. The smog of Manhattan was transformed by the low angle of the sun to a lovely purple mist which softened the grim silhouettes of the great towers of concrete.

As Craig stepped on the gangplank, the yacht dipped slightly under his weig4', and alerted the figure in the cockpit.

"Ashe! Craig was taken by surprise. "Ashe Levy, the fairy princess of struggling authors."

"Baby." Ashe came down the deck to him with a landlubber's uncertain steps. "I couldn't wait, I had to come to you right away."

"I am touched." Craig's tone was aci ye "A when I don't need help you come at a gallop." Ashe Levy ignored it, and put a hand on each of Craig's shoulders. "I read it. I read it again and then I locked it in my safe." His voice sank. "It's beautiful." Craig checked his next jibe, and searched Ashe Levy's face for signs of insincerity. Instead he realized that behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, Ashe Levy's eyes were steely with tears of emotion.

"It's the best stuff that you have ever done, Craig."

"It's only three chapters."

"It hit me right in my guts."

"It needs a lot of polishing."

"I doubted you, Craig. I'll admit that. I was beginning to believe that you didn't have another book in you, but this it was just too much to take in. I've been sitting here for the last few hours going over it in my mind, and I find I can recite parts of it by heart." Craig studied him carefully. The tears might be a reflection of the sunset off the water. Ashe removed his spectacles, and blew his nose loudly. The tears were genuine, yet Craig could still scarcely believe them, there was only one positive test.

"Can you advance on it, Ashe?" Now he didn't need money, but he needed the ultimate reassurance.

"How much do you need, Craig? Two hundred grand?"

"You really like it, then?" Craig let go a small sigh, as the writer's eternal doubts were dispelled for a brief blessed period. "Let's have a drink, Ashe."

"Let's do better than that," said Ashe. "Let's get drunk." Craig sat in the stem with his feet up on the rudder post, watching the dew form little diamonds on the glass in his hand, and no longer really listening to Ashe Levy enthusing about the book. Instead he let his mind out to roam, and thought that it would be best not to have all one's good fortunes at the same time but to spread them out and savour each more fully.

He was inundated with delights. He thought about King's Lynn and in his nostrils lingered the odour of the loams of the Matabele grassland. He thought about Zambezi Waters and heard again the rush of a great body in the Thorn brush. He thought about the twenty chapters which would follow the first three, and his trigger finger itched with anticipation. Was it possible, he wondered, that he might be the happiest man in the world at that moment?

Then abruptly he realized that the full appreciation of happiness can only be achieved by sharing it with another and he found a small empty space down deep inside him, and a shadow of melancholy as he remembered strangely flecked eyes and a firm young mouth. He wanted to tell her about it, he wanted her to read those three chapters, and suddenly he longed with all his soul to be back in Africa where Sally' Anne Jay was.

raig found a. second-hand Land-Rover in Jock Daniels" used car lot that backed onto his auctioneering floor. He closed his ears to Jock's impassioned sales spiel and listened instead to the motor. The timing was out, but there was no knocking or slapping.

The front-wheel transmission engaged smoothly, the clutch held against tho,brakes. When he gave it a run in an area of erosion and steep don gas on the outskirts of town, the silence" r" box fell Off, but the rest held together.

At one time he had been able to take his other old Land, Rover down into its separate parts and reassemble it over a weekend. He knew he could save this one. He beat Jock down a thousand dollars and still grossly overpaid, but he was in a hurry.

Into the Land-Rover he loaded everything he had saved from the sale of the yacht: a suitcase full of clothing, a dozen of his favourite books and a leather trunk with brass bindings, his heaviest piece of luggage, that contained the family journals.

These journals were his entire inheritance, all that Bawu had left him. The rest of the old man's multi-million dollar estate, including the Rholands shares, had gone to his eldest son Douglas, Craig's uncle, who had sold out and cut for Australia. Yet those battered old leather bound, hand-written texts had been the greater treasurer Reading them had given Craig a sense of history and a pride in his ancestral line, which had armed him with sufficient confidence and understanding of period to sit down and write the book, which had in turn brought him all this: achievement, fame and fortune, even Rholands itself had come back to him through that box of old papers.

He wondered how many thousands of times he had but never like this, driven the road out to King's Lynn never as the patron. He stopped just short of the main gate, so that his feet could touch his own earth for the first time.

He stood upon it and looked around him at the golden grassland and the open groves of flat, topped acacia trees, at the lines of blue grey hills in the distance and the unblemished blue bowl of the sky over it all, then he knelt likea religious supplicant. It was the only movement in which the leg still hampered him a little. He scooped up 01"W sr 6 the earth in his cupped hands. It was almost as rich and as red as the beef that it would grow. By eye he divided the handful into two parts, and let a tenth part spill back to earth.

"That's your ten per cent, Peter Fungabera," he whispered to himself. "But this is mine and I swear to hold it for all my lifetime and to protect and cherish it, so help me God." Feeling only a little foolish at his own theatrics, he let the earth fall, dusted his hands on the seat of his pants and went back to the Land-Rover.

On the foothills before the homestead he met a tall lanky figure coming down the road. The man wore an oily unwashed blanket over his back and a brief loin-cloth; over his shoulder he carried his fighting-sticks. His feet were thrust into sandals cut from old car tyres, and his earrings were plastic stoppers from acid jars embellished with coloured beads that expanded his earlobes to three times normal size. He drove before him a small herd of multi, coloured goats.

41 see you, elder brother," Craig greeted him, and the old man exposed the gap in his yellow teeth as he grinned at the courtesy of the greeting and his recognition of Craig.

"I see you, Nkosi." He was the same old man that Craig had found squatting in the outbuildings of King's Lynn.

"When will it rain?" Craig asked him, and handed him a packet of cigarettes that he had brought for precisely such a meeting.

They fell into the leisurely question and answer routine that in Africa must precede any serious discussions.

"What is your name, old man?" A term of respect rather than an accusation of senility.

"I am called Shadrach."

"Tell me, Shadrach, are your goats for sale?" Craig could at last ask without being thought callow, and immediately a craftiness came into Shadrach's eyes.

"They are beautiful goats," he said. "To part with them would be like parting wrth my own children." Shadrach was the acknowledged spokesman and leader of the little community of squatters who had taken up residence on King's Lynn. Through him, Craig found he could negotiate with all of them, and he was relieved. It would save days and a great deal of emotional wear and tear.

He would not, however, deprive Shadrach of an opportunity to show off his bargaining skill, nor insult him by trying to hasten the proceedings, so these were extended over the next two days while Craig reroofed the old guest cottage with a sheet of heavy canvas, replaced the looted pump with a Lister diesel to raise water from the borehole and set up his new camp-bed in the bare bedroom of the cottage.

On the third day the sale price was agreed and Craig found himself the owner of almost two thousand goats. He paid off the sellers in cash, counting each note and coin into their hands to forestall argument, and then loaded his bleating acquisitions into four hired trucks and sent them into the Bulawayo abattoirs, flooding the market in the process and dropping the going price by fifty -per cent for a net loss on the entire transaction of a little over ten thousand dollars.

"Great start in business," he grinned, and sent for Shadrach.

"Tell me, old man, what do you know about cattle?" which was rather like asking a Polynesian what he knew about fish, or a Swiss if he had ever seen snow.

Shadrach drew himself up in indignation. "When I was this high he said stiffly, indicating an area below his right knee, "I squirted milk hot from the cow's teat into my own mouth. At this height," he moved up to the kneecap, "I had two hundred head in my sole charge. I freed the calves with these hands when they stuck in their mothers" wombs; I carried them on these shoulders when the ford was flooded. At this height," two inches above the knee, "I killed a lioness, stabbing her with my assegai when she attacked my herd-" Patiently Craig heard out the tale as it rose in small increments to shoulder height and Shadrach ended, "And you dare to ask me what I know about cattle!" "Soon on this grass I will graze cows so sleek and beautiful that to look upon them will dim your eyes with tears. I will have bulls whose coats shine like water in the sun, whose humps rise like great mountains on their backs and whose dewlaps, heavy with fat, sweep the earth when d-icy walk as the rain winds sweep the dust from the drought, stricken land."

"Haul" said Shadrach, an expletive of utter astonishment, impressed as much by Craig's lyricism as by his declaration of intention.

"I need a man who understands cattle and men," Craig told him.

Shadrach found him the men. From the squatter families he chose twenty, all of them strong and willing, not too young to be silly and flighty, not too old to be frail.

"The others," said Shadrach contemptuously, "are the products of the unions of baboons and thieving Mashona cattle-rustlers. I have ordered them off our land." Craig smiled at the possessive plural, but was impressed with the fact that when Shadrach ordered, men obeyed.

Shadrach assembled his recruits in front of the rudely refurbished cottage, and gave them a traditional giya, the blood-rousing speech and mime with which the old Matabele indunas primed their warriors on the eve of battle.

"You know me! he -shouted. "You know that my great great-grandmother was the daughter of the old king, Lobengula, "the one who drives like the wind"."

"Eh he!" They began to enter into the spirit of the occasion.

"You know that I am a prince of the royal blood, and in a proper world I woutil night frilly be an induna of one thousand, with wido*-bird feathers in my hair and ox tails on my war shield." He stabbed at the air with his fighting, sticks.

Th he! Watching their expressions, Craig saw the real respect in which they held the old man, and he was delighted with his choice.

"Now!" Shadrach chanted. "Because of the wisdom and farsightedness of the young Nkosi here, I am indeed become an induna. I am the induna. of King's Lynn," he pronounced it "Kingi Lingi', "and you are my aniadoda, my chosen warriors." Th he! they agreed, and stamped their bare feet on the earth with a cannon-fire clap.

"Now, look upon this white man. You might think him young and un bearded but know you, that he is the grandson of Bawu and the great-grandson of Taka Taka."

"Haul" gasped Shadrach's warriors, for those were names to conjure with. Bawu they had known in the flesh, Sir Ralph Ballantyne only as a legend: Taka Taka was the onomatopoeic name the Matabele had given Sir Ralph from the sound of the Maxim machine-gun which the old freebooter had wielded to such effect during the Matabele war and the rebellion.

They looked upon Craig with new eyes.

"Yes, Shadrach urged them, "look at him. He is a warrior who carried terrible scars from the bush war. He killed hundreds of the cowardly, women-raping Mashona–2 Craig blinked at the poetic licence Shadrach had taken un to himself "he even killed a few of the brave lionhearted Matabele ZIPRA fighters. So you know him now as a man not a boy." Th he! They showed no rancour at Craig's purported bag of their brethren.

"Know also that he comes to turn you from goat-keeping women, sitting in the sun scratching your fleas, into proud cattle-men once more, for-" Shadrach paused for dramatic effect soon on this grass will graze cows so sleek and beautiful that to look upon them-" Craig noted that Shadrach could repeat his own words perfectly, displaying the remarkable memory of the illiterate. When he ended with a high stork-like leap in the air and a clatter of his fighting-sticks, they applauded him wildly, and then looked to Craig expectantly.

"One hell of an act to follow, Craig told himself as he stood before them. He spoke quietly, in low, musical Sindebele.

"The cattle will be here soon, and there is much work to be done before they arrive. You know about the wage that the government has decreed for farm-workers. That I will pay, and food rations for each of you and your families." This was received without any great show of enthusiasm.

"And in addition," Craig paused, "for each year of service completed, you will be given a fine young cow and the right to graze her upon the grass of Kingi Lingi, the right also to put her to my great bum so that she might bear you beautiful calves-" Th he!" they shouted, and stamped with joy, and at last Craig held up both hands.