“Why? What’s going on?”
“Austria’s declared war on Serbia.”
She laughed with relief. “Serbia! Is that all? Another silly Balkan war?”
Gabriel looked grim. Really, she thought, never marry a soldier.
“We’ve got to go home,” he said firmly. “I knew it would happen. There’s nothing else for it. It’s the European war, Charis. We’ve got to go back. Right now. Today.”
PART TWO: The War
1: 9 August 1914, Smithville, British East Africa
The Finnegan and Zabriskie Sisal Decorticator thumped and banged away with an immense din, shaking and rattling, throwing up clouds of dust, smoke belching from its exhaust stack. Temple Smith watched it with the delighted satisfaction he always experienced when his cherished machine was in operation. At one end Saleh and some farm boys fed in the spiky faggots of harvested sisal leaves. At the other, damp, chewed, pale yellow strands were flung out, were collected in loose bundies and taken away to hang in the sun on drying racks.
Temple approached the thundering machine. The huge spinning drive wheels and flapping belts fanned the fibrous air around him. He could feel the powerful vibrations running through the concrete floor, causing his legs to tremble visibly. He reached out and placed his hand on a steel plate. The thrum and shudder set up a tingle in his finger tips. He shut his eyes. He was at the centre of the world: every functioning sense claimed by his machine.
Then, as though from a great distance, he heard a faint shouting noise. He turned round. Some six feet away stood Wheech-Browning, his arms raised protectively as if to ward off a blow. Temple saw his mouth opening and closing. He couldn’t make out what the man was trying to say.
“What?” Temple roared back. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” He was exasperated to see the Assistant District Commissioner here. Wheech-Browning had been trying to get him to pay customs duty on the coffee seedlings he’d bought in Dar for weeks. Seedlings that were now so many tinder-dry, shrivelled weeds despite the fanatical care and attention they’d received. The last time Wheech-Browning had called Temple had taken him out to the patch of hillside where he’d envisioned his field of coffee bushes and shown him the forlorn, wasted rows.
“Defective goods,” Temple had said. “Diseased, useless plants. You can’t make me pay duty on these.”
Wheech-Browning, on his part, apologized and assured him he could. As a result Temple was not predisposed to welcome further visits. Wheech-Browning was now pointing at the shed door and mouthing ‘outside’. Temple reluctantly followed him out.
In the open air the noise of the Decorticator was still considerable, but it was possible to speak. Wheech-Browning removed his sun-helmet and mopped his sweating face with a handkerchief. Then he swept his white jacket free of the shreds of sisal fibres. Temple noticed his boots and trousers were thick with dust. Looking back up the hill he saw Wheech-Browning’s mule tethered outside the house, guarded by two native policemen. Surely the man hasn’t come to arrest me? Temple thought wildly for a moment. Surely the British wouldn’t clap a man in prison for the late payment of customs duties?
“I don’t know how you can stand it,” Wheech-Browning said, delivering crisp blows to his thighs with the brim of his topee. Small clouds of dust rose up.
Temple waved away a couple of buzzing flies. “What?” he said. “Stand what?”
“The noise. The din. The hellish din.” He pointed his hat at the Decorticator shed and the clouds of smoke issuing from the engine stack.
“Oh, the Decorticator. You get used to it. You don’t even notice it after a while.”
Wheech-Browning replaced his hat. “Bad news,” he said, looking sternly at the Pare Mountains. Temple felt a flutter of panic in his chest. He could arrest me, too, he thought. It’s exactly the kind of thing the English would do. You can’t break the rules and get away with it.
Wheech-Browning switched his gaze back to Temple. “It’s war,” he uttered prophetically.
This was ridiculous, Temple said to himself. The man’s taking it far too personally.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll pay.”
A brief look of incomprehension crossed Wheech-Browning’s face. Then it cleared.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I see what you mean. Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right. We’ll all pay.” He looked down at his large feet. “In the end,” he added gloomily. Then, “Bloody flies!” he suddenly exclaimed, swatting the air about his head with his hands.
“We’ll all pay?” Temple repeated slowly. He was lost.
To Temple’s surprise Wheech-Browning suddenly leapt four feet sideways leaving the two flies circling aimlessly in the space he had occupied a second before. It took them a moment to find him again.
“Telegraph came three days ago,” Wheech-Browning said. “I’ve been riding round the district since then, letting everyone know. It seems we declared war last week, on the fourth. The news has just taken a little time to reach us here in the sticks.”
Temple began to comprehend and relax. This had nothing to do with him.
“You mean the British are at war?”
“Of course. What do you think I’ve been talking about?” Wheech-Browning looked angry.
“Who with?”
“Good Lord, man, who do you think? Our German neighbours over there.” He waved at the Pare hills. “The huns, jerries, square-heads. The bloody wa-Germani, that’s who with. With whom,” he corrected himself.
“Why?”
“Oh God. Um…” Wheech-Browning looked puzzled.
“They didn’t actually spell that out in the message.” He drummed his fingers on his chin. “Something to do with mobilizing and declaring war on France, I think. Anyway, whatever it was it was nothing we could possibly ignore.”
“I see. Damn.” Temple was thinking that this state of affairs might make it difficult getting reimbursement for the coffee seedlings from the Chef der Abteilung in Dar.
“How’s that going to affect us?” Temple asked. “I guess they’ll close the border for a while. But wait, aren’t the colonies staying neutral?”
Wheech-Browning gave a harsh ironic laugh. “Good God, Smith, what do you think’s going on here? We’re at war with Germany. And that includes those swine across the border.” He looked scornfully at Temple.
“We’re expecting an invasion any day. Taveta’s bound to be the first object of an attack. I’ve come here to tell you to evacuate your farm. Same as I’ve been telling everybody close to the border—”
“Hold on one second,” Temple said forcefully. “Just hold on. There’s going to be no evacuation here. I’ve got my sisal harvest to process. What am I going to do with no Decorticator?”
“Look here, Smith,” Wheech-Browning began.
“No, you look here,” Temple said. “You British have declared war on Germany. It’s got nothing to do with me. I’m an American. Neutral. I’ve got no quarrel with the Germans.”
“Well you’re a damn fool American,” Wheech-Browning replied angrily, his face getting redder. “My God, if you’d heard the stories going round. Think of your wife and children for God’s sake. Your wife’s English. If you get a company of German askaris in here they won’t stop to check your nationality.”
Temple pursed his lips. “What about the British Army?” he asked. “Where are the troops?”
“We’ve got three battalions of the King’s African Rifles, that’s all. Half of them are up in Jubaland, the other half will have their work cut out defending the railway. You can’t expect them to go running after every crackpot American—”