Hunters in the Night

Chapter one - The Letter

Henry,

I'm sending you this letter because I need your help. Something has been going on in the village near my Colonial station. The natives are truly and utterly scared out of their wits. Something has been savaging them, and carrying men off in the middle of their sleep.

I have come to believe that it's a lion or maybe even two lions.

I know that there've been many cases of lions plaguing our efforts to civilise this area of Kenya, but that aside, you know I'm no hunter. You however have told me over many a brandy of those ten Lions, and twenty-some leopards you've stalked and been able to kill.

So in truth I am writing to you for both your help and your skill. I've spoken with my superior, the Colonial Governor out of Nairobi, and he has agreed to reimburse you for travel expenses, porters, ammunition, and supplies for this hunt.

In addition to this he has agreed to post to you a reward; ten thousand East African Rupees per lion pelt, which if I am not mistaken is roughly one hundred and fifty pounds, back home.

I know that when it comes to a hunt, monetary compensation is nothing compared to the thrill and the sport, but I truly need your help. I've attempted to stalk the beast(s) on my own and I swear I've nearly been killed twice.

My locals are so frightened; they believe it's something, supernatural. Of course you must forgive them their superstitions, and at first I too was skeptical, but Henry I swear on my Juliet, these beasts are nothing like I've seen before.

True man-eaters I swear.

I hope that this reaches you in good health and fighting form, and I patiently await your response.

Your friend and brother in arms,

George Heathcliffe, Baron, O.B.E

-1-

Folding the letter back into its envelope Henry Nichols looked out the window of his train.

Rolling savannah and thick wooded areas dotted with the occasional watering hole passed the rhythmic chugging of the passenger train.

Reaching for his still burning cigar Henry took a long drag while tucking the thick envelope back into his jacket's interior pocket.

Exhaling the smoke through his nostrils he wiggled his moustache and tapped his ash into the crystal tray on his cabin's fold out table.

'Kenya' He sighed. 'Lions…'

He shook his head while taking another draw from his cigar.

Henry Nichols was a former Colonel and actually a hereditary knight; his father had earned his family the title for gallantry displayed during The First Boer War, though he'd never been the same after it.

Henry Nichols senior had hoped his son would never come to, let alone fall in love with, Africa. But much to his disappointment Henry junior had fallen under the enchanting spell of the 'dark continent'… Intent on adventure and glory Henry had quit school and joined the army, with one request; a colonial posting anywhere in British Africa.

It broke his father's heart, and the elder Nichols died before his son returned back from duty.

Now however, whenever the younger Henry thought of his beloved hunting grounds his passionate love was shot through with a melancholy.

This feeling, or these series of feelings, grew strongest when he thought of or talked about Kenya province.

Because it was while he was in Kenya on leave with a few other officers on safari that he received the telegram that his father had died, and that now he was a 'Baronet and head of the Nichols dynasty'.

'What poppy cock…' he thought as he scoffed.

Biting the cigar between his teeth he moved his weight around and adjusted his position while searching his waist coat for his watch.

Pulling the well-worn, plain, silver time piece from its home he clicked open its cover to look at the time.

With the watch in hand he leaned towards the door to his cabin and opened it.

"Msimamizi!" 'steward' He called out into the train. While serving with the army in Kenya Henry made it a personal study to become fluent in Swahili, an invariably useful skill.

A handsomely uniformed Kenyan came into the doorway of the cabin and bowed his head.

"Yes Mister?"

"How far are we from Mwisho Wa Maji station?"

The steward looked upwards from Henry and out the window; he took notice of a few landmarks before answering.

"No more than ten minutes Sir."

Henry nodded.

"Can I get you another drink Mister?"

Henry nodded and extinguished his cigar into the crystal ashtray before picking up and handing his empty glass to the steward.

"Same as before?" The African asked quizzically.

"No, no my man… Henry reached into his billfold and pulled out a few Rupee notes, "Make it a Gin and Tonic."

The steward took the paper money and turned to leave the cabin while Henry called to him, "I don't need change."

The African stopped mid stride and looked at the bills that Henry had given him.

"Sir… I cannot accept this!"

Henry shook his head, "Yes you can… If I am savaged by a lion in the next few days I'd like a second G and T to be poured on my coffin."

Henry laughed, "I should imagine I'd end up taking this same train."

The steward's eyes grew, "Wait! Sir you are here to hunt the Simba Mweusi?" 'The black lion'

Henry furrowed his brow, "I am here to hunt a lion… Perhaps not that lion, but yes…"

The steward immediately became frightful, "No, no Sir…"

"You are the other white man to be in Mwisho Wa Maji correct?"

Henry assumed that the first must have been George and so he asked, "The other is a Colonial Officer, right?"

The steward nodded, "Yes Mister Heath…"

Henry laughed, "Heathcliffe…" he corrected.

"So sorry," the steward said, "Mister Heathcliffe…" The Kenyan paused, "He was injured a few days ago."

Henry's smile immediately dropped, "What?"

"Yes, Simba Mweusi attacked his station. At night, as is the creature's custom."

"George Heathcliffe?" Henry was so concerned he had to ensure that it was his friend that they were talking about.

"Yes Mister George Heath."

"What happened?"

"The Simba came and broke through the fences that they had around the village and the British building."

"It killed many of the men of the village and Mister George tried to shoot it."

"From what I have heard the beast was injured but Mister George was gravely hurt as well."

Henry's heart sank. George had always joked that of the two of them it was he who was going to get killed in Africa years before Henry.

The steward continued, "Mister George is very loved by the village, so they made sure to get one of the white doctors to come from Nairobi to save him."

Henry nodded as the steward continued.

"Before he could arrive though the witch doctor of the village did what he could."

Henry rubbed his moustache as he thought about his friend.

George's face flashed through his mind as the steward continued.

"Mister George is alive, but he kept saying that a white hunter would come, he said that a knight was coming to save the village…"

"When I was a boy I learned in a church school," The steward stopped, almost embarrassed, "I learned about the knights of your England's table…"

He lowered his voice, "Are you the knight Mister George spoke of?"

Henry couldn't help but smile painfully, "Yes…" and he got an idea.

Reaching into his jacket he presented a small book, his passport. After opening to the first page he looked up to the steward, before presenting the book to him.

It read: Sir Henry Nichols, the bearer of this document, is to enjoy the title and pleasure of Baronet of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

The steward to his time to read the short and small text, but once he did he smiled.

"A knight… To kill the Simba…"

He nodded and continued, "Please Sir, I must get you your drink."

The steward hastily departed and Henry laughed at his eagerness. Though it was an act, he was far too concerned about his friend.

"Goddamn it George…" he brought his hand to his mouth, rubbing his lips with concern. "You better still be breathing when I get there…"

He hadn't seen George in months. The last time the two old-boys were together was at George's Christmas party, a large event he tried to throw every year at his London townhouse.

After that party the two had kept up a correspondence while they worked.

George got his new posting in Kenya as the Colonial Officer for Mwisho Wa Maji while Henry acted as a 'consultant'. This is to say a private-sector expert; providing services to Colonial companies.

He would often act as a go-between service for Colonial governments, their operations, and the local tribes. While at the same time he helped organise safari for rich gentlemen of leisure, guiding through the wilderness, hunting, and so on…

It was adequate pay, but Henry loved the adventure of it more than anything.

At least he did.

The last few expeditions he'd been a part of however had left a sour taste in his mouth and from those poor experiences Henry was about ready to quit Africa. That was until he got George's letter.

But now George was injured.

Perhaps even dead…

"Goddamn it George…" he repeated.

"He could have written earlier…"

Henry nodded. "I know you George… You probably waited until the last bloody minute to draft that letter."

Shaking his head Henry began to imagine his quarry. This must have been one alpha male of a lion.

'Ruthless…'

'A real man eater', as George had said.

'Brazenly attacking the village and the station?' Henry thought. 'It's not unheard of… But with both the village hunters, and George trying to kill it? No way…'

'I know George isn't as competent a hunter as others but he's a bloody crack shot, always was.'

'So… in the station; his own territory? George should have had an advantage and that lion should have been blown away.'

Henry's hand quavered slightly.

Outside the cabin he could hear the returning footsteps of the steward.

Carrying a tall, perspiring, and fizzing, glass the smiling man held it out to Henry and he politely returned the smile as he accepted the drink.

"Mister Henry sir, you have hunted Simba before?"

Henry took a quick swig of the bubbling tonic and nodded, wiping his moustache.

"Yes…"

He liked to hunt, but he didn't like to boast.

In fact Henry was a quiet and personal man, and though George liked to tease him, Henry never outright enjoyed killing. He liked the sport, he liked the stalking, the mind games, and the shooting, but…

Not 'killing'. Something about being imprecise, unclean, or brutal in the execution of an animal seemed wrong to him. And he never took a shot that wasn't going to be clean.

Meekly his voice continued; "…one or two."

The steward nodded.

"I will leave you now Mister Knight."

Before closing the cabin door the steward turned and bowed his head reverently, "I will say prayer for you Mister Henry Sir."

In Swahili Henry quietly thanked the man, "Asante…"

-2-

George Heathcliffe lay on an improvised stretcher, sweating and groaning in pain as he loaded cartridges into the magazine of his rifle.

His chest had been opened by three large blades and the natives were able to save his life by applying stiches and burning wood to cauterise the thick and deep wounds.

Any lesser man would have given in to his current condition and expired, but George was a brick-house of a being.

Three times the regiment pugilist champion, he was also renowned amongst the natives for being able to pick up two fully grown adult impala and carry them on either shoulder.

Despite this natural strength George's injuries had sapped his mobility, and his power, and had reduced him to a bandaged mess lying on the floor of his own office.

Cursing loudly he dropped a cartridge and listened as it dully hit the floor and began a noisy roll across the uneven cracking floor boards.

The doctor from Nairobi had administered medicine and treatment to him as best he could, and was currently getting George something to eat in the village that surrounded the small colonial outpost.

Before leaving George the doctor ordered him not to move.

But if George was awake he was going to be bound to move.

His rifle was laid close to him and he was able to pull fresh cartridges from his pants pocket.

The heat and the shock of his injuries had kind of gotten to him, and he was delirious; temporarily mad.

"Eyes in the night… green flashing eyes… It shimmered… The beast shimmered."

He muttered.

"I know it's game now…"

He cringed and groaned in pain loudly, "Ugh! Goddamn it!"

He took a breath and held it as he continued to fill the rounds into the magazine.

"I was off by just a few inches… Just a few inches…"

After the last bullet was entered into the magazine through the breach of his gun he closed the bolt of the rifle and chambered a round.

"If I see the shimmer…" he grunted, "If I see him again… I won't miss…"

He laughed to himself, "Not a chance…"

Wincing he dug his boot heel into the wood floor and pushed himself backwards to the wall of his office.

"Those green eyes…"

He leveled his rifle towards the door way, but maintained trigger discipline.

It was still day, and the doctor was due back soon.

'No way would that bastard attack in the day.' George thought "But…" he winced again, "No reason to not be ready for him…"

A small boy entered into the office and called out George's name, "George! Doctor sent me to help you!" The simple cadence and voice was familiar.

The young boy held a wet cloth in his hand and he looked around the small building for his charge.

"Mister George?" he called again.

Grunting loudly, George responded from his office, "In here boy…"

Slowly entering into the room the young lad immediately rushed to George's side upon seeing him leaning against the wall.

"You're supposed to be lying down!"

George laughed, but stopped at the pain of the action. "Hello to you too Adimu…"

"Stupid adults always tell me to do things and they don't do them either!"

George tried to smile, but the pain was too great.

"Give me the rifle Mister George."

"Come now boy… you know better…" he finally coughed out.

Wetting George's grime and sweat covered face the boy smirked as he went about cooling the large white officer.

George winced and smiled as the two looked at each other.

"If I die you can have my cricket set, deal?"

Adimu immediately recoiled, "Mister George that is not funny!" and he continued, "I would never play it again if you die…"

George tried to nod, "I appreciate that my boy…"

A few quiet seconds passed before George pointed to his desk and spoke, "Can you bring me some stationary?"

Adimu furrowed his brow. George had been tutoring the local children in English and a variety of other subjects, but he was an amateur teacher, and there was much in their vocabulary that was wanting.

"Oh…" he closed his eyes and winced again, "uh… paper, and pencil, writing…"

The boy nodded and left the wet cloth on George's free arm to stand up.

Walking towards George's desk Adimu grabbed a pad of lined paper and one of the many pencils strewn about the busy and cluttered work desk.

"Thank you Adimu…" George managed as he took hold of the articles.

Carefully he put the pencil to the paper and began to write in his unique characters. The young boy looked on in interest as he continued to wet George's face and neck.

"What are you writing Mister George?"

George smirked and huffed dryly, "A letter my boy…"

"To who?"

"Whom…" George breathlessly corrected.

"To whom?" The boy repeated

"An old friend of mine… The hunter…"

"Mister Henry?"

George wordlessly pursed his lips and barely nodded.

"…with any luck he'll be here in the next few days…"

"I'm praying that he is… But in case I'm not there to see it… There's much I need to tell him…"

-3-

As George put his last letter to paper, not that far away Henry was disembarking his train and collecting his luggage.