Wilbur Smith’s Fire on the Horizon is a gripping tale of adventure, survival, and human endurance that captures the raw power of nature and the depths of human resilience. Set against the backdrop of untamed wilderness and unpredictable seas, the story follows a cast of characters navigating treacherous landscapes and personal battles. Smith’s trademark ability to weave historical context with heart-pounding action brings this story to life, drawing readers into a world where danger is always a step away. Below is an excerpt from Fire on the Horizon that showcases his signature blend of suspense and vivid storytelling.
“1899 Colonel Penrod Ballantyne, hero of Abu Klea and Omdurman, pulled his wide-brimmed hat low over his forehead and pretended to doze, while the train rattled north across the open veld towards Johannesburg. In the winter sunshine of early June, the great plains unrolled to a far horizon. Pale grasses and low thorn bushes, desperate for rain under the vast blue sky, shook in the breeze as the train passed. There was no sign of a human hand other than the narrow train tracks reaching into the distance.
Penrod, dressed in the loose, hard-wearing clothes of a working man, his skin tanned to the colour of polished teak by the African sun, paid no attention to the view. Through half-closed eyes, he was watching the two other occupants of the carriage. The man, dressed in a formal black suit, stared out of the window, frowning, his fingers gripping the bowl of his unlit pipe. Next to him was a girl, thirteen perhaps, wearing a long dress of forget-me-not blue and a cream bonnet, the colours emphasising her fair skin, the cut drawing attention to her high cheekbones and long, graceful neck. She was reading her Bible.
The man was Gerrit Vintner. He was returning home with his daughter after the failed talks with the British over the future governance of the Transvaal in Bloemfontein. He was a man of means and reputation, with farms and a thriving business empire in the Transvaal. In his youth, he had ridden with General Nicholaas Smit and delivered the British humiliating defeats at Ingogo and MaJabu Hill. Now in his fifties, he was still strong and vigorous, his thick beard shot through with grey.
Penrod had been travelling through the Transvaal for some weeks now. He had left his wife and son in Cairo, working his way down the east coast of Africa – Mombasa, Stone Town, Dar es Salaam, Beira – before arriving in Lourenço Marques, the capital of Portuguese East Africa, in the guise of John Quinn, exiled Irish patriot, occasional farmhand and mine worker, a man deeply sympathetic to the Boer struggle against British Imperi alism. After a night at the Carlton Hotel, the newly completed railway – the pride of the Transvaal – had taken him from the wide, tree-lined streets of Lourenço Marques, the dhows riding at anchor in the turquoise water of the harbour, up to the yellow dust of the highveld, through Komatipoort and Nelspruit, to Pretoria and Bloemfontein.
While in Bloemfontein, Penrod had kept several prominent Boers under observation – Vintner being one of them. Then, two nights ago, he had overheard a muttered conference about his man, which had decided him on this journey and this carriage.
The rear door opened suddenly. A blast of noise, the thundering churn of the wheels on the track shattering the peace of the almost-empty carriage.
‘Here, boys! More room to spread out in first class.’ The man who had spoken strutted into the carriage. His clothes, dirty and badly patched, hung loose on his tall, stringy body, and under different circumstances Penrod would have taken him for a vagrant. But the rifle he had slung over his shoulder was a Mauser, and he wore a knife and a gun at his belt. He was followed by two companions, dusty and unkempt but heavier. One with a dusting of freckles across his face, the other with a scar running from his temple down into his sparse beard. Their eyes were dull and brutish and the stink of the previous night’s cheap alcohol followed them in a cloud. Penrod remained motionless, observing the new arrival and his friends from under the brim of his hat. He had been expecting them. The first man grinned like a dog baring its teeth, then nodded to his freckled friend. The man slid along the bench behind Penrod, unsheathing his hunting knife, and placing it against Penrod’s throat with such alacrity that even Penrod was surprised by the speed of his movement.
‘My name’s Alfred,’ he said in a foul-smelling whisper. ‘And this is no business of yours.’ Penrod felt the pressure of the blade against his windpipe increase slightly. ‘So, you and me are going to sit here nicely, like good friends, while Cecil and Barney there conclude our business with the fat farmer and his girl. Nod to show me that you mean to be a sensible fellow.’
Penrod nodded slightly, feeling the blade sharp against his neck. He had known many thieves and cut-throats. Some – the cowards, who took what they could from those weaker or slower than they were – had become his informants during his work as an intelligence officer for the British Army. Others – men of violence – revelled in their power, and whatever they stole was a bonus. Penrod had heard this trio plotting this robbery and judged them to be the latter.
Hester looked up as the two men approached her, then she saw the man holding a knife to Penrod’s throat.
‘Oh, Pa!’ She clutched her father’s arm.
‘Be still, Hester,’ he said sharply, taking her hand and returning it to her lap.
The leader slid his rifle from his shoulder and set it down on the bench across from Vintner and his daughter, then stared at the girl, his head on one side.
‘A good morning to you, pear drop! Did your pa get you up early to catch the train? I’ll tell you a secret. I haven’t been to bed all night.’ He rested his hand on the end of the bench. ‘Not to sleep, anyway.’
The girl wrinkled her nose and looked away.
‘On your way, boy,’ Vintner said, his voice heavy with disgust. The young man’s eyes flicked to him then back to Hester. ‘Your old man’s not very friendly, is he? My name’s Cecil.’ He leaned towards her. ‘What’s your name?’
He spoke slowly and deliberately as if talking to someone of weak understanding. His rat-faced friend, the one called Barney, giggled.
Vintner stood, bracing himself against the rocking of the carriage. ‘I said, on your way,’ he growled.
‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t, maan,’ Cecil said with a sly grin, mocking Vintner’s accent. ‘I happen to know you’re carrying a good sum of cash on you, old timer. Hand it over quietly, without any fuss – we’ll call it a fine for your rudeness to me and my friends – and we’ll leave you and your daughter to your Bible study at the next halt.’
Most men would have been concerned in Penrod’s position, sitting in the rocking carriage with a knife to his throat, but Penrod Ballantyne was not most men. He was merely curious to see how the Boer would react.
‘Unless you’d like to come with us, pear drop? Spend Daddy’s gold on some fun? I’ll buy you a nice frock, make you my girl if you’re good enough.’ Cecil reached forward and touched her chin with a dirty finger. Hester flinched.
Penrod’s wife, Amber, would have broken Cecil’s hand, but Hester had none of Amber’s fire.
Vintner shoved Cecil forcefully in the chest, pushing him away from his daughter, then delivered a back-handed slap to his cheek. The sound echoed off the wooden walls.
Cecil grunted and stumbled backwards. His rat-faced friend, Barney, unholstered a revolver and pointed it at Vintner, but Cecil regained his balance at once and pulled out his knife.
‘Hand the money over, old man!’ he roared. ‘Or I’ll take it from your body! And the girl with it, too.’
‘You’ll have neither,’ Vintner spat back.
Penrod could tell from the smooth lines of his black suit that Vintner was unarmed. Penrod had his own revolver in his pack, and a sheathed blade under his canvas jacket in the small of his back. Neither was any use to him with Alfred’s knife pressing on his neck. He readied himself.
Cecil pounced, slashing at the left side of Vintner’s neck with his knife. The older man reacted fast, leaning away so the blade arced and hissed through the empty air an inch from his face, then he threw his weight forward and punched Cecil in his midriff. The blow staggered the younger man, but he stayed on his feet.
‘Kill him! Stab his eyes out!’ Alfred shouted from his place behind Penrod.
Now! The second Penrod felt the pressure of the blade slacken, he caught Alfred’s wrist, wrenching the knife down, then twisted and struck up at the man’s chin with his left fi st. Alfred’s open jaw slapped shut on his squeal of pain; his head pushed backwards, his teeth snapping together.
Penrod jumped onto the bench, grabbing hold of the edge of the varnished wooden luggage rack above his head, and launched a flying kick at the side of Alfred’s head. He caught him above the ear, sending him sprawling across the carriage, blood and spittle fountaining from between his lips.
Penrod leaped after him, slamming the heel of his sturdy work boot into Alfred’s right wrist. He screamed, dropping his knife and rolling into a ball, clutching his crushed hand to his chest. Penrod side-footed him under the nose, booted his knife away and pulled his own blade from its hidden sheath.
Cecil span round, roaring with anger and charged towards Penrod. His first knife-strike was aimed at Penrod’s bicep, a decisive, whip-like lash to disable and disarm. Penrod span his body sideways, so that Cecil’s blade grazed his arm instead of rendering it useless, and slashed at his opponent’s wrist. He knew from experience that if he struck deep enough, Cecil would never hold a knife again. Penrod judged the weight of the blow, the trajectory of it, but the knife caught and was almost yanked from his grip. Penrod rocked back. There was a pale gold slash on the arm of Cecil’s jacket – his sleeve was reinforced with a band of thick leather up to the elbow.
A deafening blast filled the coach. Barney had fired his revolver. The bullet grazed Penrod’s cheek and caught the edge of his blade, spiralling it out of his hand and wrenching his wrist sideways. Cecil lunged forward, his eyes wild, but Penrod dropped to the floor of the carriage, catching his weight on his wrists, and kicking out with both feet in front of him, straight into Cecil’s shins. Cecil howled and threw himself on his tor
mentor, his weight driving Penrod flat on his back, pinning him to the floor. He felt the urgent churn of the iron wheels speeding along the track under him, his nostrils filled with the stench of coal and gunpowder. Cecil bared his rotten teeth again and lifted his knife.
Penrod shot out his hand and caught Cecil by the wrist, while Cecil used the full weight of his body and force of his bloodlust to bring the knife closer and closer to Penrod’s throat. Penrod gritted his teeth and sucked air into his lungs. Cecil’s face was so close that he could see every detail of the ragged stubble on his chin, the flaking skin round his thin lips, could smell his stinking, greasy hair. Then, at the very edge of his vision, he saw a glint in the shifting shadows under the bench – his knife! He had hope, but if he reached for it, Cecil would slit his throat before he could close his fingers round the handle. Penrod let a fraction of the strength out of his arm, enough to convince Cecil that he was winning. Cecil’s grimace became a smile, and he lowered him self to Penrod, his eyes flitting over his face as if to savour every moment of the kill.
At that instant, Penrod threw his head forward, smashing his forehead into Cecil’s nose. He heard the crunch of cartilage and Cecil reared away with a muffled yell. Penrod reached for his knife. His fingers brushed the bone handle. The train lurched. The knife slid into his grip. He caught it and drove the blade into Cecil’s belly, twisting it upwards. Cecil screamed – a high
pitched, gargling yelp like a rabbit in a snare. Penrod shoved him sideways onto the floor of the carriage and pulled himself upright. The floor was slippery with blood. Cecil coughed and keened, his legs spasming, his hands clutching his stomach. His cries weakened in seconds then stopped.
‘Get away! Get away or I’ll shoot the girl!’ said another voice behind him.
Penrod span round. Barney was holding the girl in front of him, his revolver cocked and pressed to her temple. Her bonnet had been torn from her head and her blonde hair billowed in the wind that whipped through the half-open carriage window. She had squeezed her eyes shut and was shaking uncontrollably; she would have collapsed if it wasn’t for the gunman’s grip. Sweat bloomed on Barney’s sallow skin.
‘Barney, isn’t it?’ Penrod said, in a soft Irish brogue, lifting his hands. ‘Don’t be foolish now. Let the girl go and be on your way.’ ‘My name is J-Jan,’ the man stuttered in confusion. ‘Jan?’ Penrod said. ‘Ah, well. Your friend there must have been confused. Why, mine is John. That makes us almost brothers, doesn’t it?’
‘You’ll kill me if I let her go!’
‘With what, fella?’ Penrod said with a smile. ‘You have the gun, and my knife’s still stuck in your friend’s belly.’
Jan sniffed and shook his head. He edged out of the space between the benches, the girl grasped in front of him, his thick arm around her neck, and began dragging her towards the door at the far end of the carriage. She struggled, her fingers scrabbling uselessly at his arm.
‘Where are you going to go, Jan?’ Penrod reasoned. ‘Come on, my lad. Be a sensible fella.’
Penrod heard a bolt click behind him and glanced back into the carriage. Vintner had shouldered Cecil’s rifle, aiming it at Jan’s head. His daughter was still trying to twist free, panting and sobbing.
‘Make him put down the rifle! I’ll kill this little bitch! I swear I will!’
‘Let her go, boy,’ Vintner said, ‘. . . or die.’
Penrod Ballantyne tensed. The Boer was making it more likely his child would have her brains blown out in front of them. ‘Damn you!’ Jan shouted, forcing the muzzle against the girl’s temple. She squealed. Jan was panicking, his finger already tight on the trigger. He might murder the child with every jolt of the train. Vintner did not lower the rifle; he just stared at Jan. ‘I’ve had enough of being told what to do by Englishmen like you. This is our land, my land, and you will not take it from us. I will not be made a fool of again.’
‘What you doing, man? What are you saying?’ Jan screeched, clutching the girl closer, trying to shrink his body behind her thin frame. ‘I swear, I’ll kill her.’
‘I trust her to the Lord,’ Vintner replied, his decision clear. Penrod ran, sprinting down the carriage. Jan turned partly towards him as he came, the muzzle of his revolver shifting its evil black snout, catching in the girl’s thin blonde hair. Jan’s finger spasmed the moment Penrod reached the girl, seizing her around the waist and dragging her out of the gunman’s arms. Rifle and revolver shots exploded the air. Hester’s body went slack and Barney was thrown backwards against the carriage door, bursting it open. His head and chest hung outside the carriage and the roar of the metal wheels on the tracks became deafening. Penrod stood, the child in his arms, and looked down at her. Her thin chest rose and fell. She had a powder burn above her ear, but he could see no blood. Her eyes fluttered open, at first wide with terror, then she saw Penrod gazing at her.
‘Does she live?’ Vintner asked.
‘She lives,’ Penrod replied. The child was gasping for air, too terrified to cry. He carried her back to her father and set her down on the bench.
‘God be praised,’ Vintner said.
Penrod bit back a retort, and returned to the body in the doorway. He dragged it into the carriage then shut out the noise o f the tracks once more. Vintner had shot Jan precisely between the eyes.
Alfred, the man who had held a knife to Penrod’s throat, was still alive but unconscious. Penrod dragged the man’s belt off his trousers and used it to secure his hands behind his back, then turned him on his side so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood before they reached Johannesburg.
‘Might I know your name, stranger?’ Vintner said as Penrod sat down heavily on the bench opposite Hester. ‘I am Gerrit Vintner, and this is my daughter, Hester.’
He put out his hand. Penrod lifted his own, apologetically. It was covered in blood.
‘My name is John Quinn, sir.’
‘British?’ Vintner asked.
‘A proud Irishman, sir.’
Vintner grunted. ‘I thank you for your help, Quinn.’ Penrod pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe Cecil’s blood from his hands.
‘You are injured, Mr Quinn,’ Hester said, her voice shaking. Penrod glanced at his arm where Cecil’s blade had sliced through the sleeve. She was right. He was bleeding more than he had thought.
‘Nothing that won’t heal in a day or two, miss. Though I thank you for your concern. Are you hurt at all?’
She shook her head.
Vintner took his own handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead before placing it over Cecil’s face. They both stared at the body, then Penrod turned away. ‘I’d better go up to the guard’s carriage,’ Penrod said. ‘Tell them what’s occurred.’ He grimaced. ‘Wasn’t my intention to arrive in Johannesburg in this style.’
‘I owe you a debt,’ Vintner said. ‘I have some standing in this town. Is there something that I can do for you?’
‘No need for that, now,’ Penrod replied. ‘You handled yourself well enough. Though if you know of someone who has a job going, I’ll take that.’
‘There’s always work at my farm,’ Vintner said. ‘But I’d be happy to have you as my guest.’
Penrod smiled. ‘I don’t like to be under an obligation, but I’ll work for you, willingly.’ He stood up. ‘Now, I’d best find that guard.’
He did not have to go far. The shots had been heard and the guard was on the way. Penrod told him about the attack, then led him to Vintner and his daughter. The guard asked a few questions, but there was little to be done – two men were dead and a third was trussed up and waiting to be handed over to the authorities. The fact that he had only heard one side of the story was not a concern to him – he knew the name Gerrit Vintner.
With his investigation complete, the guard showed Penrod to a bathroom, unlocking the door with a key he kept on his watch chain, so he could finish cleaning himself up.
Penrod shrugged off his jacket and ripped away his shirtsleeve so that he could get a better look at the wound in his arm. War between the British and the Boers was coming, he had no doubt of it. Vintner’s outburst had confirmed it. The smouldering hostility between the Boers of the Transvaal Republic and Orange Free State, and the British authorities of the Cape Colony and Natal, was about to burst into flame once again. The enormous gold reserves discovered in the Transvaal thirteen years earlier had attracted ambitious men from across the globe to the mines of the Witwatersrand, and now they wanted voting rights, and complained about the high taxes imposed on whatever meagre profits they made. Paul Kruger, president of the Transvaal Republic, saw these demands and complaints as a threat to the freedom of his people, and suspected they were nothing but an excuse for the British to annex the Boer republics as part of a grander scheme to see the Union Jack fly from Cape Town to Cairo. And who could blame him? thought Penrod. It was the British, after all, who had forced them off their farms in the Cape sixty years earlier – demanding taxes and manumitting their slaves. These were proud people, descendants of the Dutch Vryburghers, who had managed their own affairs in the Cape Colony for a century before it was annexed by the British, their blood mixed with that of the protestant Huguenots, fleeing another religious war in France after the Edict of Fontainebleau, and the children of Angela van Bengale.
The wound in his right arm needed stitching, but it was far from the worst injury that Penrod had received over his years of service. He tore his shirt sleeve into strips and used these to bind his arm.
Penrod examined himself in the mirror, washing off the final smears of blood with his handkerchief. The amiable Irishman had disappeared; the British intelligence officer stared back at him from the mirror. His blue eyes were steely and intent, and the high cheekbones and long nose gave him an aristocratic air. He soaked the flannel again and ran it over his neck. A little over nine months earlier, Penrod had been one of the first men into Omdurman, the air thick with gunsmoke from the Maxims, his face spattered with gore from the carnage of the battle that had raged outside the city walls. Twelve thousand killed – he could see them now, their broken bodies piled up, their blood leaching into the grey sand of the desert, turning it black in the late-afternoon sun. He had been looking for Rebecca Benbrook and Osman Atalan in Omdurman, looking for revenge and redemption. But that chapter of his life was closed now. He was not the man that Rebecca had taken into her bed in Khartoum, no longer that dashing young officer making his name in the 10th Hussars. He was forty-five, still strong and lithe, still as deadly with a blade as his younger self, but time had changed him. He was a father now and the old impulsiveness that had driven him had been tempered into something harder, something adamantine.”
This excerpt offers just a taste of the thrilling journey Fire on the Horizon promises. Wilbur Smith’s masterful prose keeps readers on the edge of their seats, making every moment feel as though you’re right there, facing the same dangers. If you’re a fan of action-packed adventures with rich, atmospheric details, this novel will not disappoint. Let this be the push you need to dive into one of Smith’s most captivating tales yet!
Featured image via Thirdman on Pexels
