Footprints of Lion Read online

  Beverley Harper died of cancer on 9 August 2002. She rests at peace in the Africa she so loved.

  Her ashes lie by the Boteti River in Botswana, below a lodge called Leroo-la-Tau. It means Footprints of Lion.

  It is a special place.

  This simple plaque marks her passing:

  * * *

  BEVERLEY ANN HARPER

  AUTHOR, WIFE, MOTHER AND FRIEND

  SET OFF ON HER GREATEST SAFARI

  AUGUST 9TH 2002

  AGED ONLY 58

  SHE LEAVES LASTING FOOTPRINTS

  AND A LONG SHADOW

  “TSAMAYA SENTLE TATTY HEAD”

  * * *

  Also by Beverley Harper

  Storms Over Africa

  Edge of the Rain

  Echo of an Angry God

  People of Heaven

  The Forgotten Sea

  Jackal’s Dance

  Shadows in the Grass

  FOOTPRINTS

  of LION

  BEVERLEY

  HARPER

  First published 2004 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  This Pan edition published 2005 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  St Martins Tower, 31 Market Street, Sydney

  Reprinted 2005

  Copyright © Estate of Beverley Harper 2004

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

  photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval

  system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia,

  cataloguing-in-publication data:

  Harper, Beverley.

  Footprints of lion.

  ISBN 0 330 42205 7.

  I. Title.

  A823.3

  Cartographic art by Laurie Whiddon, Map Illustrations

  Typeset in 11.5/13pt Bembo by Post Pre-press Group

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of

  the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural,

  recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The

  manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the

  country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2007 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced

  or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any

  person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any

  form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying,

  recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the

  publisher.

  Footprints of Lion

  Beverley Harper

  Adobe eReader format 978-1-74197-018-0

  Microsoft Reader format 978-1-74197-219-1

  Mobipocket format 978-1-74197-420-1

  Online format 978-1-74197-621-2

  Epub format 978-1-74262-550-8

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy

  both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and

  news of any author events.

  In completing this story I have drawn freely on many real people who, for better or worse, played their part in the ever-changing saga which is Africa. Some influenced events far beyond the shores of that continent. While it is not my intention to stand in judgment over the pages of history — or in any way distort documented fact - Africa is full of surprises. Should apparent coincidence or the suggested actions of any such individuals blur the fine line between fact and fiction, then I am well satisfied. The intention is simply to entertain.

  My thanks to those people, living or long dead, who played their part in the rich tapestry which is Zululand. Their names are too numerous to mention individually but each and every one of them contributed to the magic.

  And to the animals of Africa — wild, often persecuted, yet somehow adapting to the relentless pressures of change. They survive with uncompromising dignity.

  As always, to Piers, Miles and Adam - sons of Africa. May you smile at the memories.

  To Heidi and Steve in Botswana. Milestones in my life.

  To Cate Paterson and Selwa Anthony, for believing. Sarina Rowell and Jo Jarrah — editors extraordinary.

  Also Lindsay Christison in Pietermaritzburg, source of reference material on matters past and present. To lan and Anne, keyboard wizards.

  And especially to Peter Watt, friend, raconteur and kindred spirit, without whose input you would not be turning these pages.

  That said, this is Beverley’s story - she was Africa - where it all began. I miss her.

  To all of you, hamba kahle.

  Robert Harper

  Barooga, 2004

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Author’s Note

  ONE

  Choking dust billowed from beneath the sweat-streaked horse as it bore down relentlessly on a fleeing steer. The young Zebu ox swerved back and forth in a desperate bid to escape but its pursuer was more than a match, keeping up with each twist and turn, effortlessly gaining on the animal. It veered away as the rider slipped from his saddle and launched himself at the ox. Legs planted astride the beast, he grasped the small horns, pulled back and twisted, the straining cords standing out on his arms and neck a sign of physical exertion as the animal fought back. Slowly but surely the Zebu steer’s head turned sideways. Still the pressure remained, forcing it to look backwards, over one shoulder. Finally, the steer lost balance, toppling, bringing its tormenter down with it.

  ‘Shite.’ The crack had been audible, even above the bellowing of other spooked beasts. ‘I’ve broken my bloody leg.’

  Anxious eyes stared down at the man who lay immobile, obviously in agony. The steer scrambled up and escaped, stamping on the fractured limb in its panic to get away. ‘Get help.’ The words were squeezed out between clenched teeth.

  He heard a horse galloping away. Everything went black.

  The verandah ran wide around all four sides of a low, solid stone house, providing welcome shade against the fierce afternoon sun. It was late April, yet approaching
winter had, so far, provided nothing more than a slight cooling of temperature at night and in the early mornings. The days remained consistently hot, though most of the humidity had dissipated, taking with it the infection-heavy air which laid low both cattle and man. Disease-carrying mosquitoes were still active but nowhere near as bad as in summer. All in all, it was usually a pleasant time, a four-month respite from the norm, an opportunity for rejuvenation, for taking stock, catching up with the small jobs for which there was no time during most of the year.

  The man sitting in a cane chair on the front verandah laid aside a much-read copy of King Solomon’s Mines and found himself wondering if the hero – Allan Quatermain – really had been based on his old friend Fred Selous. Making a mental note to ask him, he sourly eyed his left leg, which was propped on the riempie stool in front of him. A once-white plaster-of-Paris casing, frayed and grimy, stretched the woven strips of leather on which it lay. He couldn’t wait to have the thing removed. It was heavy and cumbersome, the skin underneath itched terribly, and he was bored with enforced inactivity.

  Six weeks. It had been a clean break, thank God. The plaster was due to come off tomorrow and, although the doctor warned him against trying to do too much too soon, Dallas Granger-Acheson was impatient to get on with his life without the restrictions of a leg that wouldn’t bend.

  ‘You’re lucky to be so fit, ’ the doctor had told him. ‘A person your age doesn’t usually heal as quickly.’

  Dallas had grunted and glowered at the man. At forty-nine, he did not appreciate being reminded of encroaching age. The farm kept him busy and he was as capable of putting in as full a day’s work as any of his sons. Age had not added too many extra pounds to his body – he remained a fine figure of a man. Despite grey flecks in his dark, curly hair, it was glossy with no sign of thinning. Clear eyes still shone with inner amusement or could glow with desire for the only woman he had ever loved, his wife, Lorna. Laughter lines stretched out from the corners of his eyes and two horizontal furrows sat above them on his forehead – so far, the only creases on a deeply suntanned face. No aches and pains prevented him from joining his children in a game of tennis, or a fast and furious race on horseback. The fact he’d broken a leg whilst trying to prove to his eldest son that he could still wrestle a steer to the ground for branding was put down to bad luck rather than brittle bones.

  Lorna stepped out onto the verandah. ‘Thought you might like tea out here. The house is like an oven.’

  Dallas caught his breath. She still had that effect on him, even after so many years. Sunlight captured the honey gold of her hair. It had once been pale blonde but the colour had deepened with age and, now Lorna was nearly forty-five, glowed rich and silken whenever she let it down over her shoulders. Usually, like today, it was pinned up, leaving tendrils to float around her face. Six children had thickened her waistline slightly – a fact that caused Lorna much annoyance – but the rest was still as slender as the girl he’d known when they were growing up together in Edinburgh. Slightly tanned skin remained wrinkle free although a few fine lines had begun to appear during the past couple of years. Eyes the colour of cornflowers had lost none of their lustre. Dallas loved Lorna now as much as ever.

  Enforced inactivity over the past six weeks had left Dallas with little to do. There was a limit to how many books could be read and he quickly grew bored with writing letters. Even the farm accounts were up to date. In a reflective moment he found himself looking back over his life, to the early days in Zululand and the reasons why he’d come here. Lorna had, on more than one occasion, accused him of brooding. Now she did it again.

  ‘I am not, ’Dallas replied. ‘I’m just remembering.’

  She smiled, bent and kissed his hair, then returned inside, leaving him to reflect.

  He’d been twenty-one when circumstances forced him to leave Scotland. The reason still caused Dallas – Lord Acheson – some pangs of guilt. Young, anxious to experience life and all it had to offer – a fact not lost on Lady Alison de Iongh. She was Lorna’s mother and the affair had come abruptly to an end when she and Dallas were caught in flagrante delicto by her husband, Lorna’s father. To save her own reputation, Alison accused Dallas of forcing himself on her, leaving Lord de Iongh no option other than to accuse the young man of rape. Dallas had two choices. Stay and face the real possibility of a hangman’s rope, or flee. He chose the latter, changing his name to Dallas Granger, escaping from Britain and ultimately settling in Africa.

  As if that wasn’t a bad enough legacy to leave behind, his relationship with Alison de Iongh had become complicated by Lorna. Dallas had fallen in love with her but circumstance forbade the two young people from considering marriage. As fourth son of the Earl and Countess of Dalrymple, he had no prospects to offer a young lady of quality. Lorna, who had no say in the matter, found herself engaged to the Marquis of Dumfries, a man older than her own father.

  For as long as she could remember, Lorna had adored Dallas. Although resigned to a future without him, she was determined that the Marquis would not be the first man to touch her. A few months after her seventeenth birthday, she declared her feelings to Dallas. This was too much for a young man who felt the same way and they became lovers.

  Dallas knew that what he was doing was wrong. Time and again he tried to stop seeing Lorna’s mother but the older woman managed to maintain his much-divided attention. For two months he continued seeing both of them. He had placed himself in a hopeless situation, and it was only a matter of time before Dallas’s world blew up in his face. When it did, Lorna was carrying their child.

  Dallas moved his leg to a more comfortable position, remembering the despair he’d felt at having to leave Scotland and, in particular, Lorna. He’d believed he would never see her again. Trying to forget, he fell into a brief, though pleasurable, dalliance with a Danish woman onboard the ship taking them to Africa. Jette Petersen satisfied some of Dallas’s needs, but she was not Lorna. When Jette jumped ship in Morocco, stealing a small fortune in jewellery belonging to Dallas, he was unable to do anything about her deception. Worst of all, Lady Dalrymple, his mother, in a last-minute confession before he left home, had told him that the gems once belonged to his real father, a man by the name of Jonathan Fellowes. Although Dallas loved and respected Lord Dalrymple, whom he had always known as his father, he was devastated at losing the only link he had with his natural father.

  Arriving in Durban under the assumed name of Granger, and having few funds remaining, Dallas realised that he had to find something to do, and quickly. He teamed up with two men, trader Will Green and Logan Burton, elephant hunter. They worked the Thukela River valley, trading with the Zulus and gathering ivory. From their first event-filled trip, Dallas became fascinated with Zulu culture, learning as much as possible about their traditions and lifestyle from his driver, mission-educated Mister David.

  Along the way, Dallas rescued two fellow travellers, Jack Walsh and his daughter, Caroline, from a swollen Mngeni River which threatened to sweep their wagon over the Howick Falls. A second girl, Sarah, niece of Jack Walsh, remained stranded on the north bank and Dallas was charged with Sarah’s safe return to her parents’ home in Colenso.

  Five months later, on arriving back in Durban, he was horrified to discover that Sarah had named him father of the illegitimate child she now carried. Her bullying, reputation-conscious father, William Wilcox, demanded that Dallas marry his daughter. At first he refused; he hadn’t laid a finger on Sarah. But when Wilcox announced that he knew Dallas’s real identity, was aware of the charges laid against him in Scotland, and threatened to contact the police unless Dallas made an honest woman of Sarah, he had no option but to comply.

  Lorna, despite everything, still remained at the forefront of Dallas’s mind. Married he might be, but in name only. When Sarah gave birth, the truth could no longer be hidden – the father had been African. To avoid a scandal, the child was sent to him and word put out that it had died. Wilcox still refused to consid
er his daughter giving Dallas a divorce. Outraged at the blackmailing tactics which forced him to remain in a loveless marriage, Dallas walked out, returning to the boarding house he’d stayed at when he first arrived in Durban. There he found Lorna and their son, Cameron.

  Lorna’s husband had died, leaving her wealthy. Feisty and determined to be with Dallas at any cost, she defied convention and made her own way to Africa in search of him. There were many obstacles that might have come between them but Lorna had brushed them all aside. The two set up house together, living as man and wife.

  At last, it seemed that Dallas’s life had fallen into place but there was still one cloud on the horizon. More than anything, he wanted to be free of Sarah, free to marry Lorna. That, he believed, would complete his happiness. As it happened, fate hadn’t finished with Dallas. In Durban, he unexpectedly encountered the Danish thief, Jette, who introduced him to Torben, also his son, the result of their liaison onboard ship. Jette told Dallas she expected nothing from him with regard to their offspring.

  Surprisingly, she still had the stolen jewellery and opted to return it, keeping only one piece. In order to explain the sudden appearance of such obviously valuable items, Dallas had to confess the affair to Lorna. She’d already forgiven him his involvement with her mother and the fact that he married Sarah. Now she had to accept that he had a son with another woman.

  Love between them was strong enough for Lorna to stay. Then, one day while Dallas was away, Jette arrived at their house, bringing Torben with her. She was, she claimed, being threatened by a powerful sultan for whom she had worked after disappearing from the ship in Morocco. She had also stolen from him. Jette told Lorna that the sultan would stop at nothing to get his revenge and she feared for her son’s safety. Lorna agreed to look after the boy and Torben Petersen became part of their lives. All so long ago. So much had happened since then.

  Dallas and Lorna were granted the use of land in Zululand by Cetshwayo, fourth king of the Zulus. Both the British and the Boers had their eyes on this richly fertile part of Africa. War was the inevitable outcome, which forced Dallas to choose sides. Using his considerable knowledge of the country and its people, Dallas scouted and fought for the British. Not that he wanted to; he was given no choice.