At last the colonel hauled out his gold watch again and announced, ‘Gentlemen, that will do for the day. We will reconvene at nine in the morning.’ He stood up and led his fellow judges to the bar at the back of the mess.

‘I am afraid I didn’t do very well,’ Bobby confessed, as he and Leon went out on to the veranda. ‘It will all be up to you when you give your evidence tomorrow.’

Ishmael brought their dinner and two bottles of beer from his lean-to kitchen at the back of Leon’s rondavel. There was no chair in the hut, so the two men sprawled on the mud floor as they ate with little appetite and went despondently over their strategy for the morrow.

‘I wonder if the Nairobi ladies will think you so dashing and handsome when you’re standing against a brick wall wearing a blindfold,’ Bobby said.

‘Get out of here, you dismal johnny,’ Leon ordered. ‘I want to get some sleep.’ But sleep would not come, and he turned, tossed and sweated until the early hours of the morning. At last he sat up and lit the bullseye lantern. Then, wearing only his underpants, he started for the door and the communal latrine at the end of the row of huts. As he stepped out on to his veranda he almost stumbled over a small group of men squatting at the door. Leon started back in alarm and held the lantern high. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded loudly. Then he saw that there were five of them, all dressed in the ochre-red Masai shukas.

One rose to his feet. ‘I see you, M’bogo,’ he said, and his ivory earrings flashed in the lamplight almost as brilliantly as his teeth.

‘Manyoro! What the hell are you doing here?’ Leon almost shouted, with rising delight and relief.

‘Lusima Mama sent me. She said you needed me.’

‘What the devil took you so long?’ Leon wanted to hug him.

‘I came as swiftly as I could, with the help of these, my brothers.’ He indicated the men behind him. ‘We reached Naro Moru siding in two days’ march from Lonsonyo Mountain. The driver of the train allowed us to sit on the roof and he brought us here at great speed.’

‘Mama was right. I have great need of your help, my brother.’

‘Lusima Mama is always right,’ said Manyoro, flatly. ‘What is this great trouble you are in? Are we going to war again?’

‘Yes,’ Leon answered. ‘Big war!’ All five Masai grinned with happy anticipation.

Ishmael had been alerted by their voices and he came staggering with sleep from the shack behind the rondavel to find the cause. ‘Are these Masai infidels causing trouble, Effendi? Shall I send them away?’ He had not recognized Sergeant Manyoro in his tribal dress.

‘No, Ishmael. Run as fast as you can to Lieutenant Bobby and tell him to come at once. Something wonderful has happened. Our prayers have been answered.’

‘Allah is great! His beneficence passes all understanding,’ Ishmael intoned, then set off for Bobby’s hut at a dignified jog.

‘Call Sergeant Manyoro to the witness stand!’ said Bobby Sampson confidently and loudly.

A stunned silence fell over the officers’ mess. The judges looked up from their notes with immediate interest as Manyoro limped through the door on a crudely carved crutch. He wore his number-one dress uniform, with puttees neatly wound around his calves, but his feet were bare. The regimental badge on the front of his red fez and his belt buckle had been lovingly polished with Brasso until they gleamed like stars. Sergeant Major M’fefe marched behind him, trying unsuccessfully to stop himself grinning. The pair came to a halt in front of the high table, and saluted the judges with a flourish.

‘Sergeant Major M’fefe will act as interpreter for those of us with limited Kiswahili,’ Bobby explained. When the witness had been sworn in Bobby looked at the interpreter. ‘Sergeant Major, please ask the witness to state his name and rank.’

‘I am Sergeant Manyoro of C Company, 3rd Battalion, 1st Regiment, The King’s African Rifles,’ Manyoro announced proudly.

Major Snell’s face crumpled with dismay. Until that moment he had not recognized Manyoro. Leon had heard him announce more than once at the mess bar when he was on his third or fourth whisky, ‘These bloody wogs all look the same to me.’ Such pejorative remarks were typical of Snell’s overbearing disdainful attitude. No other officer would have used such a term to describe the men he commanded.

Have a good look at this bloody wog, Froggy, Leon thought happily. You won’t forget his face in a hurry.

‘Your honour,’ Bobby addressed the senior judge, ‘may the witness be allowed to give his evidence while seated? He has taken a Nandi arrow through his right leg. As you can see, it has not yet healed properly.’

All eyes in the room went down to Manyoro’s thigh, which had been swathed in fresh bandages that morning by the regimental surgeon. A patch of fresh blood had oozed through the white gauze.

‘Of course,’ said the senior judge. ‘Someone fetch him a chair.’

Everyone was leaning forward with anticipation. Major Snell and Eddy Roberts were exchanging agitated whispers. Eddy kept shaking his head.

‘Sergeant, is this man your company officer?’ Bobby indicated Leon at his side.

‘Bwana Lieutenant, he is my officer.’

‘Did you and your troop march with him to Niombi boma?’

‘We did, Bwana Lieutenant.’

‘Sergeant Manyoro, you need not keep calling me “Bwana Lieutenant”,’ Bobby protested, in fluent Kiswahili.

‘Ndio, Bwana Lieutenant,’ Manyoro agreed.

Bobby switched back into English for the benefit of the judges. ‘On the march did you come across any suspicious tracks?’

‘Yes. We found where a war-party of twenty-six Nandi warriors had come down the Rift Valley wall from the direction of Gelai Lumbwa.’

‘Twenty-six? Are you sure?’

‘Of course I am sure, Bwana Lieutenant.’ Manyoro looked affronted at the fatuity of the question.

‘How did you know for certain that it was a war-party?’

‘They had no women or children with them.’

‘How did you know they were Nandi and not Masai?’

‘Their feet are smaller than ours, and they walk in a different way.’

‘How different?’

‘Short strides – they are midgets. They do not step first on to their heel and push off with their toe as a true warrior does. They slap their feet down like pregnant baboons.’

‘So you could be certain that this was a Nandi war-party?’

‘Only a fool or a small child could have doubted it.’

‘Where were they headed?’

‘Towards the mission station at Nakuru.’

‘Was it your opinion that they were on their way to attack the mission?’

‘I did not think that they were going to drink beer with the priests,’ Manyoro replied loftily, and when the sergeant major had translated, the senior judge stifled a guffaw. The other judges smiled and nodded.

Eddy was looking glum now.

‘You told all this to your lieutenant? You discussed it with him?’

‘Of course.’

‘He gave you orders to pursue this war-party?’

Manyoro nodded. ‘We followed them for two days until we came so close that they realized we were after them.’

‘How did they reach that conclusion?’

‘The bush was open and even the Nandi have eyes in their heads,’ Manyoro explained patiently.

‘Then your officer ordered you to break off the pursuit and go to Niombi. Do you know why he decided not to engage the enemy?’

‘Twenty-six Nandi went off in twenty-six directions. My lieutenant is not a fool. He knew we might catch one if we ran hard and were lucky. He also knew that we had frightened them off and they would not continue to Nakuru. My bwana had saved the mission from attack and he would not waste more time.’

‘But you had lost almost four days?’

‘Ndio, Bwana Lieutenant.’

‘When you reached Niombi what did you find?’