The left side of Luke Honey’s face was already swollen. Drawing breath caused flames to lick in his chest. “My grandfather chopped cotton. My father picked potatoes.”
“Not you, though.”
“Nope,” Luke Honey said. “Not me.”
The lord of the stables was named Scobie, a gaunt and gnarled Welshman whose cunning and guile with dogs and horses, and traps and snares, had elevated him to the status of a peasant prince. He dressed in stained and weathered leather garments from some dim Medieval era and his thin hair bloomed in a white cloud. Dirt ingrained his hands and nails, and when he smiled his remaining teeth were sharp and crooked. His father had been a master falconer, but the modern hunt didn’t call for birds any more.
The dogs and the dog handlers went first and the rest of the party entered the woods an hour later. Luke Honey accompanied the Texans and Mr. Liam Welloc. They rode light, tough horses. Mr. McEvoy commented on the relative slightness of the horses and Mr. Welloc explained that the animals were bred for endurance and agility.
The forest spread around them like a cavern. Well-beaten trails crisscrossed through impenetrable underbrush and unto milky dimness. Water dripped from branches. After a couple of hours they stopped and had tea and biscuits prepared by earnest young men in lodge livery.
“Try some chaw,” Mr. Briggs said. He cut a plug of hard tobacco and handed it to Luke Honey. Luke Honey disliked tobacco. He put it in his mouth and chewed. The Brits stood nearby in a cluster talking to Dr. Landscomb and Mr. Liam Welloc. Mr. Briggs said, “You in the war? You look too young.”
“I was fifteen when we joined the dance. Just missed all that fun.”
“Bully for you, as the limeys would say. You can shoot, I bet. Everybody here either has money or can shoot. Or both. No offense, but I don’t have you pegged for a man of means. Nah, you remind me of some of the boys in my crew. Hard-bitten. A hell-raiser.”
“I’ve done well enough, in fact.”
“He’s the real great white hunter,” Mr. Williams said. “One of those fellers who shoots lions and elephants on the Dark Continent. Fortunes to be won in the ivory trade. That right, Mr. Honey?”
“Yeah. I was over there for a while.”
“Huh, I suppose you have that look about you,” Mr. Briggs said. “You led safaris?”
“I worked for the Dutch.”
“Leave it be,” Mr. Williams said. “The man’s not a natural braggart.”
“Where did you learn to hunt?” Mr. McEvoy said.
“My cousins. They all lived in the hills in Utah. One of them was a sniper during the war.” Luke Honey spat tobacco into the leaves. “When my mother died I went to live with my uncle and his family and those folks have lots of kin in South Africa. After college I got a case of wanderlust. One thing led to another.”
“Damned peculiar upbringing. College even.”
“What kid doesn’t dream of stalking the savanna?” Mr. Briggs said. “You must have a hundred and one tales.”
“Surely, after that kind of experience, this trip must be rather tame,” Mr. McEvoy said.
“Hear, hear,” Mr. Briggs said. “Give up the ivory trade for a not-so-likely chance to bag some old stag in dull as dirt U.S.A.?”
“Ten thousand sterling silver buys a lot of wine and song, amigos,” Mr. Williams said. “Besides, who says the kid’s quit anything?”
“Well, sir, I am shut of the business.”
“Why is that?” Mr. Briggs said.
Luke Honey wiped his mouth. “One fine day I was standing on a plain with the hottest sun you can imagine beating down. Me and some other men had set up a crossfire and plugged maybe thirty elephants from this enormous herd. The skinners got to work with their machetes and axes. Meanwhile, I got roaring drunk with the rest of the men. A newspaper flew in a photographer on a biplane. The photographer posed us next to a pile of tusks. The tusks were stacked like cordwood and there was blood and flies everywhere. I threw up during one of the pictures. The heat and the whiskey, I thought. They put me in a tent for a couple of days while a fever fastened to me. I ranted and raved and they had to lash me down. You see, I thought the devil was hiding under my cot, that he was waiting to claim my soul. I dreamt my dear dead mother came and stood at the entrance of the tent. She had soft, magnificent wings folded against her back. White light surrounded her. The light was brilliant. Her face was dark and her eyes were fiery. She spat on the ground and the tent flaps flew shut and I was left alone in darkness. The company got me to a village where there was a real doctor who gave me quinine and I didn’t quite die.”
“Are you saying you quit the safaris because your mother might disapprove from her cloud in heaven?” Mr. Briggs said.
“Nope. I’m more worried she might be disapproving from an ice floe in Hell.”
In the afternoon, Lord Bullard shot a medium buck that was cornered by Scobie’s mastiff pack. Luke Honey and Mr. Williams reined in at a remove from the action. The killing went swiftly. The buck had been severely mauled prior to their arrival. Mr. Wesley dismounted and cut the animal’s throat with his overlarge knife while the dogs sniffed around and pissed on the bushes.
“Not quite as glorious as ye olden days, eh?” Mr. Williams said. He took a manly gulp of whiskey from his flask and passed it to Luke Honey.
Luke Honey drank, relishing the dark fire coursing over his bloody teeth. “German nobles still use spears to hunt boars.”
“I wager more than one of those ol’ boys gets his manhood torn off on occasion.”
“It happens.” Luke Honey slapped his right thigh. “When I was younger and stupider I was gored. Hit the bone. Luckily the boar was heart shot — stone dead when it stuck me so I didn’t get ripped in two.”
“Damn,” Mr. Williams said.
Mr. Briggs and Mr. McEvoy stared at Luke Honey with something akin to religious awe. “Spears?” Mr. Briggs said. “Did you bring one?”
“Nope. A couple of rifles, my.45, and some knives. I travel light.”
“I’m shocked the limeys put up with the lack of foot servants,” Mr. Briggs said.
“I doubt any of us are capable of understanding you, Mr. Honey,” Mr. Williams said. “I’m beginning to think you may be one of those rare mysteries of the world.”
An hour before dusk, Scobie and a grimy boy in suspenders and no shirt approached the hunters while they paused to smoke cigarettes, drink brandy, and water the horses.
Scobie said, “Arlen here came across sign of a large stag yonder a bit. Fair knocked the bark from trees with its antlers, right boy?” The boy nodded and scowled as Scobie tousled his hair. “The boy has a keen eye. How long were the tracks?” The boy gestured and Lord Bullard whistled in astonishment.
Mr. Williams snorted and fanned a circle with his hat to disperse a cloud of mosquitoes. “We’re talking about a deer, not a damned buffalo.”
Scobie shrugged. “Blackwood’s Baby is twice the size of any buck you’ve set eyes on, I’ll reckon.”
“Pshaw!” Mr. Williams cut himself a plug and stuffed it into his mouth. He nudged his roan sideways, disengaging from the conversation.
“I say, let’s have at this stag,” Mr. Wesley said, to which Lord Bullard nodded.
“Damned tooting. I’d like a crack at the critter,” Mr. Briggs said.
“The dogs are tired and it’s late,” Scobie said. “I’ve marked the trail, so we can find it easy tomorrow.”
“Bloody hell!” Lord Bullard said. “We’ve light yet. I’ve paid my wage to nab this beastie, so I say lead on!”