Under the Desert Sky Page 2

  “But that’s my employee and I need to be with him.” Christian pointed to July. “We have live cargo that must be cared for.”

  “Very well, sir, if you’ll get in the line to the far right”—the officer handed Christian a pass—“you’ll be on the next ferry.”

  • • •

  Stepping onto Ellis Island, Christian located the ostriches and arranged for them to be put in the required quarantine for incoming animals. Then he went in search of July and found him being interrogated by a self-important, overweight official.

  “July? This isn’t July, it’s August, and I didn’t ask you for the date. Now, let’s try again. Tell me your name.”

  “July.”

  “No. I need your name.” The overbearing man was becoming more agitated.

  “Laat my dit hanteer,” Christian said, speaking in Afrikaans, telling July to let him handle it. “I’ll tell him you aren’t that proficient in the language.”

  “Ja, meneer,” July replied.

  “What was all that?”

  “This man works for me,” Christian said. “But he doesn’t speak English all that well. If I may, I’ll answer your question.”

  Christian wasn’t telling the truth; July had lived and worked in Cape Town for more than thirty years and he was conversational in English, Afrikaans, Malay, Hindi, and several Bantu dialects, as well as his own Zulu language. But Christian recognized that he might be better able to deal with this pompous ass than July.

  “I require a full name,” the official said.

  In all the years they’d known each other, Christian had never heard July called anything other than that. If Mrs. Van Koopmans had given Christian the surname De Wet, he thought he could just as easily give July a name.

  “His name is Julius Van Koopmans.”

  July smiled broadly.

  “You say he works for you? In what capacity?”

  “He’s a certified keeper of rare birds, specifically ostriches. We’re transporting two pair to Phoenix.

  “You have the proper paperwork for this, I suppose?”

  “Yes, these birds are going to the Arizona Ostrich Farm, in care of Mr. A. Y. Prinsen, and here is the paperwork showing we’ve paid the tariffs on each bird.”

  “This says you paid two thousand dollars. How many birds did you say you’re bringing?”

  “Four.”

  “Mister, they have to be mighty special birds to have a tariff like that; but no matter how special they are, they still have to stay in quarantine for seven days. Your man here might want to stay close to them if they’re that valuable.”

  “We appreciate that. Is there a bunk room where July—Julius can stay?”

  “Sir, this is not a hotel. There’s a bench down there where he can bed down if he wants, but that’s about it. Oh, there’s a place where he can get a bite to eat and a washroom nearby, but that’s all I can offer.”

  “Thank you.”

  • • •

  “If we’re going to be stuck here for seven days, I think we should trade off every other night. That way it won’t be too hard on either of us,” Christian said. “If you’ll take the first night, I’ll find us a hotel.”

  July shook his head. “Do you see all these signs around here—COLORED drinking fountain, COLORED waiting room, WHITES ONLY. What makes you think the hotel you find for you would work for me?”

  Christian had no answer. Blacks had been emancipated in South Africa since the last apprentices were freed in 1840.

  “I’ll stay with the birds,” July said. “You wouldn’t know what to do with them anyway.”

  Phoenix, Arizona Territory

  September 1900

  The first thing Christian noticed when he stepped down from the train in Phoenix was how hot it was. The oppressive heat seemed to bear down on him like a great weight. He looked around for July, as he’d not been able to ride in the same car. July was easy to find, not only because he was the only black person on the depot platform, but also because, at six feet nine inches, he was head and shoulders taller than anyone around him.

  “July, over here,” Christian called.

  With a broad smile, July picked his way through the crowd to join him. “What do we do now, Christian? Where do we take the birds?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, July, I don’t have the slightest idea. My directions ended with—” Christian pointed. “I think that’s where we start.”

  The sign read CHRISTIAN DE WET. A tall, slender young man, dressed in Levi Strauss waist overalls and a short-sleeved denim shirt, held it. His high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat seemed to be part of a universal uniform for all males in this part of America. Christian and July walked toward him.

  “I’m De Wet.” Christian extended his hand.

  “I’m Andy Patterson. Mr. Prinsen sent me here to meet you and the birds.”

  “We were wondering what we were going to do with our stock. This is my friend and partner, July—that is, Julius Van Koopmans.”

  Andy looked at July, lifting his eyes as he took the measure of his size. “Damn if I don’t think you’re about the biggest man I’ve ever met. Whoowee, I sure don’t ever plan to get on your bad side.”

  “My bad side?” July asked, confused.

  “I don’t ever want to get you mad at me,” Andy explained.

  Christian chuckled. “July’s a good man, and it takes a lot to make him mad. But you’re right, when he gets angry, you don’t want to be on the opposite side of him.”

  “I can tell you right now, we’re going to be great friends.” Andy reached out to shake July’s hand.

  “I assume you have some sort of conveyance for the birds,” Christian said.

  “Yes, sir, I sure do. Let’s get them settled. It’s not much of a ride out to the ranch. I expect you men are hungry. Mrs. Prinsen said we shouldn’t tarry—she’ll be holdin’ supper for you. Besides, I’m one cowboy who’s never late for a meal.”

  “So you’re a cowboy,” Christian said. “I’ve read about cowboys and I’m glad to finally meet one.”

  “Yeah, well, right now, workin’ for Mr. Prinsen like I do, I guess you can’t rightly call me a cowboy. But I’ll be damned if I’ll ever let myself be called a bird boy.”

  • • •

  Christian and July were warmly greeted by Yhomas and Katie Prinsen, and Yhomas’s farm manager, Rueben Bucknell, and his wife, Gwen. The supper was a huge piece of beef that had been cooked over an open fire, and a pot of beans.

  “We thought we’d initiate you to the Western way of eating,” Katie said as she ushered them to a long table in the shade of a cotton tree. For July’s sake, Christian was glad to see a couple of black faces were included. “Have you ever eaten barbecue?”

  Christian laughed. “Yes, ma’am, I know what it’s like to eat meat cooked over an open fire.”

  “Young man, until you’ve eaten Memphis barbecue, you’ve not eaten. Lorenzo grew up there, and the first time I ate his cooking, he lost his job rounding up ostriches. From then on, he became the bunkhouse cook, isn’t that right, men?”

  Several of the men responded, and one of the black men was slapped on his back good-naturedly.

  “Well, real Memphis barbecue is pork. But I do my best,” Lorenzo said.

  When the meal was over, July excused himself to make certain the new ostriches were settling into their environment. Lorenzo accompanied him while a couple of the others set about cleaning up after the meal.

  “Christian, bring your things in and let’s get you situated,” Yhomas said. “Lorenzo will see that July gets settled. I would never have thought that Marie would let him out of her sight. How long has he been working for her?”

  “Close to twenty years. For her to let him leave just shows how much Mrs. Van Koopmans values your friendship.”

  “The feeling is mutual. Do you think she’ll be safe in Cape Town? Everybody knows where her sympathies lie.”

  “That may be her salvation. She’s an Afrik
aner and she’s never denied that.” Christian picked up his belongings and followed the Prinsens into the house.

  After Christian was settled, Yhomas invited him into the library. “Have a seat.” Yhomas indicated a leather sofa. “I think you’ll find that quite comfortable.”

  Christian sat down. “Yes, it is.”

  “Marie sure thinks a lot of you.”

  “She thinks I’m her son.”

  “Oh, I know the story well, my boy, how she took in an urchin and turned him into, in her words, ‘one of the smartest and finest gentlemen in all of Christendom.’ You’ve made quite an impression on her.”

  “She’s a wonderful lady. I can’t imagine caring for a flesh-and-blood mother any more than I do for Mrs. Van Koopmans.”

  “And yet, you continue to call her ‘Mrs. Van Koopmans.’ ”

  “I called her that when I first came to live with her, and now it just seems awkward to change.”

  “Well, she adores you, whatever you call her. How do you like your martini?”

  “I don’t know. Mrs. Van Koopmans insisted that I take it, but obviously I haven’t had the opportunity to try it out yet.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “My rifle. Isn’t that what you asked me?”

  “Your rifle?”

  “Yes, my Martini.”

  Prinsen laughed. “Oh, yes, the Martini-Henry. I’d forgotten about that. Actually when I say martini, I’m talking about a drink that’s popular here. It’s really quite good.”

  “I’ve not had the pleasure.”

  “Well, then I must make one for you.” Prinsen opened the liquor cabinet and began mixing the drink. “I’ll have to take you and your Martini over to the Tonto Range sometime soon. That’s where people around here hunt elk.”

  “Yes, I think I’d like that.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for bringing these new birds. You know, almost all the ostriches in America are the progeny of the same two birds, and I think it’s time to introduce a new bloodline.”

  “That seems strange. How did that happen?”

  “Some well-meaning, uninformed handler covered the first shipment with a canvas and smothered all but two. That’s why Marie was so careful about who she got to deliver them.”

  Christian laughed. “I didn’t have much to do with getting them here. It was July who took care of them. I just rode on the same ship with them.”

  “Well, they’re fascinating creatures, and I must say they’re proving to be quite profitable. And having lived in both the Cape Colony and here, I believe I can say with no little authority that the Salt River Valley could be the best area in the world for raising ostriches. And as long as the ladies want their fashionable hats, there can be no end to the amount of money I can make.”

  “Is there a chance the market will fade away?”

  “When a New York lady will pay as much as sixty dollars for a prime starched feather, do you think she’ll grow tired of her hat? I don’t think so.”

  “For your business, I hope that is true.”

  “The biggest problem we have now is this drought. If we don’t get good rains this fall, we’ll really be in a pickle.”

  “How long have you been in a drought?”

  “This’ll be the third year.” Prinsen handed the drink to Christian. “Try this, my boy, and tell me what you think.”

  Christian took a sip. “Well, it’s got gin, and I developed a taste for gin when I was in England.”

  “I thought you might’ve. Tell me, is the war really as bad as the American papers say? I can’t tell if it’s the Dutch or the British who are favored to win.”

  “I don’t think anyone knows.”

  “But you have experienced the war, haven’t you? I mean, firsthand?”

  “Yes.” Christian began telling about the siege of Kimberley.

  Christian was surprised at how closely Yhomas had followed the war. He wanted to know what Christian knew of Bloemfontein, of Johannesburg, of Pretoria—all cities that had fallen to the British—and now he’d read that President Kruger had withdrawn to Lydenburg. “The Boer cause is lost, isn’t it?”

  “You can’t say that yet. The word when I left was that President Kruger has escaped to Mozambique, and he intends to sail for France. Perhaps he can garner some support there.”

  “Uncle Paul is no longer relevant,” Yhomas said, referring to the president of the Transvaal. “If the Afrikaners have a chance, it’ll be up to the man for whom you are named.”

  Christian laughed. “I don’t think Mrs. Van Koopmans was aware of General De Wet when I was named.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You should be proud to bear the general’s name, no matter how you came by it. I’m glad you’re here. Not many people in Phoenix are interested in what happens so far away. They only care if there’s a cloud in the sky that may bring a drop of rain. Oh, and they care if McKinley gets elected again.”

  The mantel clock struck two.

  The long train trip, and perhaps even the alcohol, made Christian’s eyelids droop.

  Yhomas set his drink down and stood. “My goodness, what kind of host am I? You look tired. Come with me, and I’ll show you to your room.”

  • • •

  When Christian climbed into bed, he thought he’d fall asleep immediately from exhaustion, but he missed the rocking of the train that had brought him to Phoenix. And the talk this evening had been unsettling. Yhomas was obviously an expatriate and an entrepreneur who was trying to make his home and his fortune in Phoenix. Yet, from the conversation tonight, South Africa was never far from his thoughts.

  Christian closed his eyes. He envisioned Table Mountain in half-light, its foursquare rock guarding the bay as it rose over Cape Town. He saw the red glow on a winter morning as the sun searched for the veiled rocks beyond. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so anxious to leave his homeland.

  But then he thought of Kimberley and what he’d endured at the hands of the Boers. But they were not the only agents for hardship. Lord Kitchener, who had been the British commander during the siege, had imposed the dreaded martial law that had created so much unnecessary mayhem for the people. As Christian recalled his time at Kimberley, his thoughts returned to a young woman he’d met there.

  “Ina Claire. I need to tell you where I am,” he said aloud, even though he was alone.

  Christian jumped out of bed and lit the lamp that sat on a table by his bed. Across the room was a writing desk. Opening the drawer, he found some ink, a pen, and some stationery. He smiled when he saw the woodcut head of an ostrich in the corner, its wide eyes staring at him. Miss Woodson would be amused when she received his note.

  Dear Ina Claire,

  I’ll bet you are quite surprised to hear from me. I am in the United States, in a place called Arizona. I came here to deliver some ostriches for Mrs. Van Koopmans to a man named Yhomas Prinsen. I have thought often of the siege of Kimberley, and although the recollections of the investment of the city aren’t pleasant, the memories of you are. I hope your thoughts of me are just as agreeable, and I hope there is an opportunity for us to see each other while I am in the US.

  Yours truly,

  Christian De Wet

  Christian reread the letter. It seemed to have just the proper amount of familiarity, one that could be taken as a friendly reminder of the time they had spent together, yet one that held open the suggestion of renewing their friendship. He folded it, put it in an envelope, and addressed it. He had no idea how to post it, but he’d ask Yhomas tomorrow.

  2

  “Be careful, Will,” Phoebe called as her son put his ear down on an ostrich egg. “We’ll help the little babies out when it’s time.”

  “I hear him, Mama. I hear him scratching.” Will picked up the seven-inch egg. “He wants to come out.”

  “Not yet. He needs a few more days.”

  “Here you are.” Gwen Bucknell entered the incubator house. “I should’ve known you’d be here. Are
your eggs about to hatch?”

  “Will would say so.” Phoebe chuckled. “But I think we have at least another week.” She lowered the top on the incubator box. “Why don’t you come up to the house and join us for a cup of root beer?”

  “Root beer!” Will shouted. “Miss Gwen, please come. I want some root beer.” The little boy ran out of the building, and as he did, the flock of chicks in the adjoining pen began to scurry.

  “Will, slow down. You’re scaring the little birds,” Phoebe called.

  “He’s grown into such a little helper. What would you do without him?”

  “He wears me out, but he’s a great joy. Now tell me, what brings you over this afternoon?”

  “First of all, I haven’t seen you for a while. But more importantly, Buck said you weren’t at the Dorris Theater yesterday.”

  “You mean for the water meeting?”

  “Yes. Most of the farmers in the valley were there.”

  “What difference does it make? They’re never going to get anything accomplished. The day Edwin bought this farm, he was told a reservoir was going to be put in the Tonto Basin, and now, five years later, there’s still nothing.”

  “Yes, but this time it’s different. We can’t survive another year of drought like we’ve had for the last two years. Everyone agrees something has to be done—they just can’t agree on how to do it.”

  “And we’re right back where we were with the Hudson Company. Like I said, nothing’s going to be done,” Phoebe said.

  Just then Will opened the door to the kitchen. “I got the cups.” He held them up.

  “Good for you. I’m so thirsty,” Gwen said.

  Phoebe went into the main house and got the root beer from the icebox. She grabbed a loaf of bread and sliced off three pieces, then slathered on some of her freshly canned pear preserves. She wished she had some butter, but with the drought many of the dairy cows had stopped giving much milk, and the price for butter was more than she was willing to pay.

  Will was showing Gwen some of his toys. “She likes my ostriches. Mr. Lopez made them for me.”

  “Which reminds me, I didn’t see either Cornello or Trinidad. Where are they?”