by Peter Rimmer
That night, Karel, Piers, Kei and the dogs broke through the fence between two British blockhouses, cutting the wire in the moonless dark, the hooves muffled, the dogs silent. Through the rest of the night, they rode slowly north, checking their position from the Southern Cross. In the morning, when the sun paled the sky, the two brothers rode on either side of Kei. In front trotted Blackdog. Behind, like scouts protecting the flanks, coursed the three dogs and the pregnant bitch that belonged to Sarie Mostert.
“We’ll ride over the Limpopo River,” said Kei. “There’s something I have to tell you. Something you can help. And something to show you.”
From deep within his right saddlebag, Kei pulled out Zwide’s head-ring. And as they rode north in the sweet clean air of a day free from war, he told them the story of Lobengula’s gold, spreading the legend.
“You want us to look for the old king’s gold?” asked Piers.
“It exists,” said Kei. “The trouble is nobody knows where. No, that gold gave me enough trouble.”
“Why does everyone want to be rich?” asked Karel.
“It is in all men,” said Kei. “What wouldn’t I have done with all that gold.”
“What would you have done?” asked Piers.
“I would have found a place and made myself a king. With all that gold I would have bought enough guns to fight off the British.”
“And who would have used the guns?” asked Karel.
“There are always people if you promise them enough. Fight for me and I will make you rich. Give you land. Give you women. Never fails. Most people don’t have a chance. Any chance is better than none. Sitting, waiting to be robbed of the little you have has never been attractive. You Boers taught that much to us blacks. Promise anyone a better life and give him a gun and he will fight.”
“So you are going to look for the gold?” said Piers.
“Maybe.”
“And where do you get the guns?”
“Someone will always sell me guns for gold.”
“What’s the matter, Karel?” asked Piers.
“Someone just walked over my grave.”
The map showed the line of blockhouses across the veld that was meant to box in the remnants of the Boer commandos that still refused to surrender. James even knew the name of the man leading the commando that interested him most. For a price, there was always a spy in every community.
“Another Cape rebel and Tinus Oosthuizen’s neighbour. Through General Oosthuizen, we should have offered the other Cape rebels amnesty. Not hanged him. Well, whatever, this du Plessis is trapped between the fence and our new sweep. With your permission, Colonel Hickman, I wish to go north and make sure he is caught but I want General Gore-Bilham’s assurance the man will not hang for treason.”
“Really, James, you can be ridiculous. The man’s a murderer. He kills prisoners.”
“But didn’t we?”
“The war will be over any day soon and then it will be different.”
“Good. Because here is my letter resigning my commission after this last journey north. My father had a warped sense of humour. When Arthur died, I became my father’s heir. But there are strings attached. Not to the baronetcy that is the right of the senior surviving son or grandson. Father entailed Hastings Court, that was no problem, but it means it can never be sold or mortgaged. I am sole heir to the rest of his estate after legacies to Mother and Nathanial. My youngest brother gets not a penny. Fortunately, Sebastian has made his own money. Colonial Shipping and its subsidiaries are subject to a separate trust which requires me to run the company in exchange for all the profits of the company. I am not allowed to sell one share and if I do, the conditions of the will may be offered to Nathanial and if he fails to respond, the company shall be sold and the entire proceeds are given to the Mission to Seamen. Nat and I lose our allowances.
“As you well know, I could never stay in the regiment without a private income. The higher the rank, the more one needs. Running a shipping company will be like joining the navy. Terrible thought and God forbid but the principles of command are just the same. It would not be fair on Nat to make him choose between his work among the heathen and the business of making money. His wife would disagree but that’s another story. So you see, sir, I have to go home. The war as it stands is an irritant. The Boers have lost the conventional war and largely the guerrilla war.”
“When are you going north?” asked Colonel Hickman, pocketing the letter of resignation.
“Tomorrow on the four o’clock afternoon train.”
“I’ll miss you, James. So will the army.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As luck would have it, the last evening was a Monday, dining-in night, and every officer in Gore-Bilham’s command was required to dine in the mess that night. No one ever looked for an excuse unless he wished to stay the same rank for the rest of his army career. With his resignation letter in Colonel Hickman’s pocket, James was tempted. The very look of General Gore-Bilham made him sick. But after so many years in the army and with many of his fellow officers his personal friends, James dressed up in his number one uniform, took himself across the cobbled courtyard to the mess, took the required glass of dry sherry from the mess steward and walked across to the senior officer in the room to show his respect as required by army protocol.
General Gore-Bilham was trussed into a red monkey jacket and below the short jacket that only came to his waist, he wore dark blue trousers that accentuated his large behind. The thought of the man in his white long johns after being stripped by Tinus Oosthuizen brought a smile to James’s face as he waited his turn to wish the general good evening.
Interpreting the smile as a sign of pleasure at being in the presence of his general, Gore-Bilham broke off the stilted conversation of a junior officer trying to ingratiate himself and turned to the young colonel who was now a baronet, the title inherited from his father.
“Ah, Sir James,” began Gore-Bilham forcing James to control a wince. “Colonel Hickman tells me you have to return to England and run the family estate. With privilege comes responsibility. Can’t get away from it. Those of us who came from old families have to shoulder the yoke, so to speak. One day I must return to civilian life like yourself, Sir James. I should be grateful if you would take the chair on my right at dinner tonight. The war is going well. Smuts has sent another message enquiring our terms if he surrenders. Unconditional of course. Silly man. What else would he expect from the British?”
Before James could mentally vomit, Hickman took him away by the elbow.
“He’s a pompous, patronising ass,” said James quietly. “Never took much notice of me before the title. Doesn’t he know my father bought his title and could barely speak the King’s English? Father was a bloody pirate who made money, gave money to the Tory Party in exchange for a hereditary title. My father was obsessed with creating a dynasty, as was our general’s grandfather. Both our families are as common as dirt. I admired my father when he was a sailor, a damn good sailor, but all this business of trying to make us Brigandshaw’s old family is a lot of cock and bull. Why are people so impressed with a title or a lot of money?”
“Because they don’t have it themselves. They either despise or fawn. Our general fawns. Hope you enjoy your food. He’ll tell you all about his own estate in detail while you try to eat. The fact the money to pay for it was made by working the poor twelve hours a day, six days a week doesn’t bother him. Just don’t remind him his grandfather was in trade and that you, by the sound of your father’s will, are going to be in trade yourself very soon.”
“He’s a snob.”
“Funnily enough, we all are snobs in one way or the other. The poor who wallow in their poverty and hate the rich, taking great pride in what they are, are also snobs. That one’s called inverted snobbery.”
“Tell that to the poor. My mother knew what it was like to be poor. Hungry and cold and worked to a standstill. It’s not very nice, she assures me.”
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br /> “Man in all his manifestations. And you are right, James. I have never been poor.”
“Why do people have to be poor?”
“That is the question sensible people have been asking since man was settled down in mutual groups of protection, giving up the precarious life of hunting and gathering thirty-odd thousand years ago according to Darwin. You see, in a group there has to be a leader, and leaders exact their price once they are in power however small their little band of men. One of the laws of nature. The strong or the rich eat first at the table.
“Many of the weaker tribes in Africa have asked for British protection so they can grow crops and get to eat them before the stronger tribes kill them for the food. In the end, they must pay for that protection and stability. Someone has to pay the army. The British are not a charitable organisation. Frankly, I think Africa will cost us far more than we get out of it. Look at the cost of this war in life and treasure balanced against the diamonds and gold. Rhodes led us in by the nose. Taking on responsibility for other people can often be more trouble than it’s worth.
“I hope you don’t find that yourself, James. Being chairman of a major shipping company will have its problems. And when you are at the top of the chain, you can’t pass along the problem as so many of us are so fond of doing in the army. Huge responsibility can be as big a problem as being poor, but only those who have had huge responsibility know what I’m talking about. I wonder if our general sleeps so well at night having hanged General Oosthuizen? You see, under all that pomposity the man just might be human.
“Come on. It’s seven-thirty. Everyone is going into the dining room. You are lucky tonight, James. You won’t have to search for your name-place… Enjoy your dinner, Sir James Brigandshaw, Bart.”
Like a buck caught in a bushfire, Magnus du Plessis rushed the fence twice and each time recoiled from the intense heat of British retaliation. He was down to twenty-three men and the noose was tightening around his neck. With the fence and blockhouses, the space that had been the Boers’ best friend had gone. Instead of breaking through the British lines into relative safety, they found the British circling round their back again while filling in the space in front. Turning and twisting, the remnants of Tinus Oosthuizen’s commando fought for their lives like rats in a tight corner. With the constant movement forced on them by the British, the ponies were losing condition. The dried meat in their saddlebags was dwindling and there was never enough time to shoot and dry a fresh supply of game. There wasn’t even time to pray or think of their wives and families. After two years for some of them, less for Magnus du Plessis, they had come to the end of their tether. There was nowhere to go and nowhere to hide.
“They’ll shoot us down like dogs,” he told them. “We must die like men for God and country.”
“What country?” asked one of the men. “Die yes, but not for our country. Maybe we Boer never had a country. Maybe we never will.”
“Let us pray,” said Magnus du Plessis, stopping his pony.
Still in the saddle, everyone removed their hats and bent their heads and prayed to God for their salvation.
“What are they doing?” asked Lieutenant Green.
“I rather think they are praying,” said James.
“Do we fire?”
“Not when a man has his hat in hand and is praying to his God. Dismount and find cover. Those men are very dangerous, Mr Green. Ah, there is Philby’s signal. We have them neatly bottled up in this nice little valley… Mr du Plessis,” shouted James. “I know you speak English.
“My name is James Brigandshaw. My brother is Sebastian, partner of the late Tinus Oosthuizen, for which I personally apologise as an officer and a gentleman. Your war is over. Fact is, the whole war is over. General Smuts has again enquired about terms for cessation of war. Please drop your rifles to the ground and put your hats back on your heads. You will be treated as prisoners of war.”
“And hanged as a traitor?” shouted back Magnus du Plessis. Then he charged.
“He’s coming, sir.”
“I rather think you are right. Mr Green, please shoot that man’s horse. Not the man, the horse.”
“I would rather shoot the man.”
“I would rather not shoot either of them. Amazing how fast these ponies can gallop. Shoot the horse, Mr Green!”
“Yes, sir. The rest of the commando has thrown down their guns.”
The stumble of the dead horse threw Magnus du Plessis over the animal’s head into the loose rock that covered the valley floor. By the time James got down from his horse and knelt next to the man, he was quite dead. In one hand he clutched a Mauser rifle and in the other a small book of prayer.
‘The things men do to men,’ James said to himself. ‘And in the end, it does not make the slightest bit of difference. What is so important today is tomorrow’s history.’ He was shaking his head.
“Have a detail dig a grave for this man. There we will bury him with honour. In different circumstances, I rather think we would have been friends. Seb and I, Seb and Magnus du Plessis. Myself and Tinus Oosthuizen. What a waste of life.”
“What do we do with the men who have surrendered?”
“Give them a good meal, by the look of them. After the burial, I shall be leaving, Mr Green.”
“Where are you going, sir?”
“To England. Back to England. Let some other poor sods sort out the mess. We’ve made an unnecessary feud with these people that will last a hundred years.”
Epilogue
Peace
The eight-year-old twins, Klara and Griet, stared at the man on the other side of the railway carriage as it clattered through the dry bushveld of Bechuanaland. First, Klara thought, there had been Uncle Frikkie, but he had gone to the war and never come back. Then after the prison camp, they had gone home with the old lady to Majuba when Karel and Piers had come home with the dogs. The old lady had gone back to treating their mother as a servant, but they had the one-roomed hut that had not been burnt down by the British, all to themselves, and now that their lives were back to normal it was marvellous.
They had run with the dogs up to the mountains, a slow loping run taught them by Elijah who had come back with the remnants of his family from somewhere called the Transkei where there was so much water no one could see the end. There was still no sign of Kei or Blackdog and Piers had said he wasn’t coming home. She had shot a small buck with the rifle lent to her by Uncle Karel and Griet had thrown a tantrum as she had wanted to be the first. Even the new house everyone was building for the old lady would be finished before the rains. With something called ‘reparations from the British’, Uncle Piers had gone off and come back with a herd of cows. Now she could drink as much milk as she could ever want. Life for Klara was perfectly wonderful, and then the man she was staring at had come into her life for the second time.
They hated him. Both of them. Shoes were put on their feet for the first time and made them sore. They were constantly dumped into tubs of hot water and scrubbed so the nice dirt-brown of their skins turned red and burnt in the sun. The dogs were kicked out of the hut. Their mother appeared in clothes Klara had never seen before. Next to the wooden bench under the mango tree, Piers built the man a table where he sat all day doing something they were told was writing. And to add insult to injury the man could only speak the language of the hated English, something he was now teaching to their mother who had lost all interest in her and Griet. Even now in the railway carriage as it ground to a halt, Klara watched her mother smiling at the man with eyes so soft they were melting.
Outside, black men were running up and down the carriages offering the passengers carved wooden animals. The window being down in the cool of the morning, a black hand came into the carriage with a wooden tortoise on the pink palm. She could not see the black man’s face, only the hand and the carving on the pink palm.
“Tiny tortoise,” said the man, first in Afrikaans and then in what Klara now understood to be English.
“This tiny tortoise,” said Billy Clifford in the English Klara could not understand, “will be a keepsake for the rest of our lives.” Then he kissed Sarie softly on the lips.
For Klara that was the last straw, so she dug Griet hard in the ribs which started a fight. The dogs and the bitch jumped up on the seat which was right against the new rules. Two of the dogs, joining in the fun, began fighting with each other. The train lurched forward and threw the dogs back on the floor between the seats. Then it stopped again with a terrible clang and threw Klara back against the seat so Griet was able to get in a punch. The man they hated was shouting, which spurred them on. When the train lurched forward again, the man was thrown onto the floor on top of the dogs. Klara’s mother began to laugh which made the twins get the giggles.
“This is going to be quite some family,” said Billy, picking himself up.
“I rather think it is,” said Sarie in Afrikaans. She found it easier to get the gist of the English rather than speaking it.
The train that had left Cape Town four and half days earlier clanked into the railway station at Fort Salisbury that people were now calling Salisbury, the military origin having been swamped by private enterprise and the bustle of commerce. With the war down south over, the boom was just beginning in the new colony. British immigrants, many soldiers who had fought against the Boers, stepped off the train as soon as it stopped. The two railway engines, one at the back and one at the front, were letting off clouds of steam and noise. Black porters grabbed at the luggage of the bewildered passengers. Women in long dresses picked up the hems of their skirts above the loose gravel and dust. No one even saw the incongruity of hatboxes and leather trunks, men and women dressed in fashion right into the middle of nowhere.