Rage

by Wilbur Smith

At last she could stand it no longer, and she borrowed Marion’s pick-up truck and went into the city, almost an hour’s drive with the first half of the journey over clay roads that were rutted and bumpy, and finally over wide blacktop highways in a solid stream of heavy traffic, coming up from the coalfields at Witbank.

  She parked the pick-up under the bluegum trees at the back of Puck’s Hill and was suddenly afraid to see him again, terrified that it had all changed and he would send her away. It took all her courage to leave the cab of the pick-up and go around the big unkempt house to the front verandah.

  At the far end there was a man sitting at the desk and her heart soared and then as swiftly plunged as he turned and saw her and stood up. It was Marcus Archer. He came down the long verandah towards her, and his smile was spiteful and vinegary.

  ‘Surprise!’ he said. ‘The last person I expected to see.’

  ‘Hello, Marcus. I was looking for Moses.’

  ‘I know who you are looking for, dearie.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  Marcus shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen him for almost two weeks.’

  ‘I have written and telephoned – he doesn’t reply. I was worried.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t reply because he doesn’t want to see you.

  ‘Why do you dislike me so, Marcus?’

  ‘Oh, my dear, whatever gave you that idea?’ Marcus smiled archly.

  ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’ She began to turn away and then paused. Her expression hardened. ‘Will you give him a message, when you see him?’

  Marcus inclined his head, and for the first time she noticed the grey hairs in his ginger sideburns and the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. He was much older than she had thought.

  ‘Will you tell Moses that I came to find him, and that nothing has changed. That I meant every word I said.’

  ‘Very well, dearie. I’ll tell him.’

  Tara went down the steps, but when she reached the bottom, he called after her.

  ‘Tara.’ And she looked up. He leaned on the railing of the verandah. ‘You’ll never have him. You know that, don’t you? He will keep you only as long as he needs you. Then he will cast you aside. He will never belong to you.’

  ‘Nor to you either, Marcus Archer,’ she said softly, and he recoiled from her. ‘He belongs to neither of us. He belongs to Africa and his people.’ And she saw. the desolation in his eyes. It gave her no satisfaction, and she went slowly back to the pick-up and drove away.

  At Level Six in the main gallery of the Sundi Caves they exposed an extensive deposit of clay pottery fragments. There were no intact artefacts, and it was obviously a dumping site for the ancient potters. Nevertheless, the discovery was of crucial importance in dating the levels for the pottery was of a very early type.

  Marion Hurst was excited by the find, and transmitted her excitement to all of them. By this time Tara had been promoted from the heavy work of grubbing in the dirt at the bottom of the trenches. She had displayed a natural aptitude for the puzzle game of fitting the fragments of bone and pottery together in their original form, and she now worked in the long prefabricated shed under Marion Hurst’s direct supervision and was making herself an invaluable member of the team.

  Tara found that while she was absorbed with the fragments, she could suppress the ache of longing and the turmoil of uncertainty and guilt. She knew that her neglect of her children and her family was unforgivable. Once a week she telephoned Rhodes Hill and spoke to her father and Centaine and to Isabella. The child seemed quite content, and in a strangely selfish way Tara resented the fact that she seemed not to pine for her mother but was accepting her grandmother as a happy substitute. Centaine was friendly and made no criticism of her continued absence, but Blaine Malcomess, her beloved father, was as usual bluntly outspoken.

  ‘I don’t know what you are trying to run away from, Tara, but believe me it never works. Your place is here with your husband and your children. Enough of this nonsense now. You know your duty, however unpleasant you may find. it – it’s still your duty.’

  Of course, Shasa and the boys would soon be returning from their grand safari, and then she could procrastinate no longer. She would have to make a decision, and she was not even certain of the alternatives. Sometimes in the night, in those silent small hours when human energy and spirits are at their lowest ebb, she even considered following Molly’s advice and aborting the child from her womb and turning her back on Moses, going back to the seductive and destructively soft life of Weltevreden.

  ‘Oh, Moses, if only I could see you again. Just to speak to you for a few hours – then I would know what to do.’

  She found herself withdrawing from the company of the other workers on the excavation. The cheerful carefree attitude of the two university students she shared her tent with began to irritate her. Their conversation was so naïve and childlike, even the music they played endlessly on a portable tape recorder was so loud and uncouth that it rasped her nerves.

  With Marion’s blessing she purchased a small bell tent of her own and erected it near the laboratory where she worked, so that when the others took their noonday siesta she could slip back to her work bench and forget all her insoluble problems in the totally absorbing task of fitting together the shattered scraps. Their antiquity seemed to soothe her and make the problems of the present seem trivial and unimportant.

  It was here, at her bench, in the middle of a hot somnolent highveld afternoon, that the light from the open doorway was blocked suddenly, and she looked up frowning, wiping back the sweaty wisps of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand, and then her mouth went dry and her heart seemed to freeze for a long moment and then race wildly.

  The sunlight was behind him, so his was a tall silhouette, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped and regal. She sobbed and sprang up from the bench and flew to him, wrapping her arms around his chest and pressing her face to his heart so that she could feel it beat against her cheek. She could not speak, and his voice was deep and gentle above her.

  ‘I have been cruel to you. I should have come to you sooner.’

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘It doesn’t matter. Now that you are here, nothing else matters.’

  He stayed only one night, and Marion Hurst protected them from the other members of the expedition so that they were alone in her small tent, isolated from the world and its turmoil. Tara did not sleep that night, each moment was far too precious to waste.

  In the dawn he said to her. ‘I must go again soon. There is something that you must do for me.’

  ‘Anything!’ she whispered.

  ‘Our campaign of defiance begins soon. There will be terrible risk and sacrifice by thousands of our people, but for their sacrifice to be worthwhile it must be brought to the attention of the world.’

  ‘What can I do?’ she asked.

  ‘By a most fortunate coincidence, there is an American television team in the country at this very moment. They are making a series called “Africa on Focus”.’

  ‘Yes, I know about them. They interviewed—’ She broke off. She didn’t want to mention Shasa, not now, not during this treasured interlude.

  ‘They interviewed your husband,’ he finished for her. ‘Yes, I know. However, they have almost finished filming and I have heard that they plan to return to the United States within the next few days. We need them here. We need them to film and record our struggle. They must show it to the world – the spirit of our people, the indomitable will to rise above oppression and inhumanity.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I cannot reach the producer of this series on my own. I need a go-between. We have to prevent them leaving. We have to make certain they are here to film the defiance when it begins. You must speak to the woman in charge of the filming. Her name is Godolphin, Kitty Godolphin, and she will be staying at the Sunnyside Hotel in Johannesburg for the next three days.’

  ‘I will go to her today.’

  ‘Tell her th
at the time is not yet agreed – but when it is, I will let her know, and she must be there with her camera.’

  ‘I will see that she is,’ Tara promised, and he rolled her gently on to her back and made love to her again. It seemed impossible, but for Tara every time was better than the last, and when he left her and rose from the camp bed she felt weak and soft and warm as molten wax.

  ‘Moses,’ she said softly, and he paused in buttoning the pale blue open-neck shirt.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked softly.

  She had to tell him about the child she was carrying. She sat up, letting the rumpled sheet fall to her waist and her breasts, already heavy with her pregnancy, were dappled with tiny blue veins beneath the ivory smooth skin.

  ‘Moses,’ she repeated stupidly, trying to find the courage to say it, and he came to her.

  ‘Tell me,’ he commanded, and her courage failed her. She could not tell him, the risk that it would drive him away was too great.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am that you have given me this opportunity to be of service to the struggle.’

  It was much easier to contact Kitty Godolphin than she had expected it to be. She borrowed Marion’s pick-up and drove five miles to the nearest village, and she telephoned from the public booth in the little singleroomed post office. The operator in the Sunnyside Hotel put her through to the room, and a firm young voice with a Louisiana lilt said, ‘Kitty Godolphin. Who is this, please?’ r

  ‘I’d rather not give my name, Miss Godolphin. But I would like to meet you as soon as possible. I have a story for you, an important and dramatic story.’

  ‘When and where do you want to meet?’

  ‘It will take me two hours to reach your hotel.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ said Kitty Godolphin, and it was as easy as that.

  Tara checked with Reception and the girl at the desk phoned through to Miss Godolphin’s suite and then told her to go up.

  A young girl, slim and pretty, in a tartan shirt and blue jeans opened the door to Tara’s ring.

  ‘Hello, is Miss Godolphin in? She’s expecting me.’

  The girl looked her over carefully, taking in her khaki bush skirt and mosquito boots, her tanned arms and face and the scarf tied around her thick auburn hair.

  ‘I’m Kitty Godolphin,’ said the girl, and Tara could not hide her surprise.

  ‘OK, don’t tell me. You expected an old bag. Come on in and tell me who you are.’

  In the lounge Tara removed her sunglasses and faced her.

  ‘My name is Tara Courtney. I understand you know my husband. Shasa Courtney, Chairman of Courtney Mining and Finance.’

  She saw the shift in the other woman’s expression, and the sudden hard gleam in those eyes that she had thought were frank and innocent.

  ‘I meet a lot of people in my business, Mrs Courtney.’

  Tara had not expected the hostility, and hurriedly she tried to forestall it.

  ‘I’m sure you do—’

  ‘Did you want to talk to me about your husband, lady? I don’t have a lot of time to waste.’ Kitty looked pointedly at her wristwatch. It was a man’s Rolex and she wore it on the inside of her wrist like a soldier.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you that impression. I have come here on behalf of someone else, someone who is unable to come to you himself.’

  ‘Why not?’ Kitty asked sharply, and Tara readjusted her early estimate of her. Despite her childlike appearance, she was as tough and sharp as any man Tara had ever met.

  ‘Because he is being watched by the police Special Branch, and because what he is planning is dangerous and illegal.’ Tara saw instantly that she had said the right things and had aroused the newswoman’s instinct.

  ‘Sit down, Mrs Courtney. Do you want some coffee?’ She picked up the house phone and ordered from room service, then turned back to Tara.

  ‘Now tell me. Who is this mysterious person?’

  ‘You probably have never heard of him, but soon the whole world will know his name,’ Tara said. ‘It’s Moses Gama.’

  ‘Moses Gama, hell!’ Kitty Godolphin exclaimed. ‘For six weeks now I’ve been trying to catch up with him. I was beginning to think he was just a rumour, and that he didn’t really exist. A Scarlet Pimpernel.’

  ‘He exists,’ Tara assured her.

  ‘Can you get me an interview with him?’ Kitty demanded, so anxious that she leaned across and grasped Tara’s wrist impulsively. ‘He’s an Emmy score, that one. He is the one person in South Africa I really want to talk to.’

  ‘I can do a whole lot better than that,’ Tara promised her.

  Shasa Courtney was determined that his sons would not grow up believing that the affluent white suburbs of Cape Town and Johannesburg were all of Africa. This safari was to show them the old Africa, primeval and eternal, and to establish for them a firm link with their history and their ancestors, to engender in them a sense of pride in what they were and in those who had gone before them.

  He had set aside six whole weeks, the full period of the boys’ school holidays, for this venture, and that had taken a great deal of planning and considerable heart-searching. The affairs of the company were so many-faceted and complex that he did not like leaving them, even in such capable hands as those of David Abrahams. The shaftsinking at Silver River was going ahead apace, and they were down almost a thousand feet already while work on the plant was also far advanced. Apart from that, the first six pilchard trawlers for the factory at Walvis Bay were due for delivery in three weeks’ time, and the canning plant was on the water from the suppliers in the United Kingdom. There was so much happening, so many problems that could demand his immediate decision.

  Centaine was, of course, always on hand for David to consult with, but of late she had withdrawn more and more from the running of the company, and there were many eventualities that might arise that could only be dealt with by Shasa personally. Shasa weighed up the chances of this happening against what was necessary, in his view, for his sons’ education and understanding of their place in Africa and their inherited duties and responsibilities, and decided he had to risk it. As a last resort he arranged a strict itinerary for the safari, of which both Centaine and David had a copy, so that they would know exactly where he was during every day of his absence, and a radio contact would be maintained with the H’ani Mine so that an aircraft could reach any of his camps in the deep bush within four or five hours.

  ‘If you do call me out, then the reason had better be iron-clad,’ Shasa warned David grimly. ‘This is probably the only time in our lives that the boys and I will be able to do this.’

  They left from the H‘ani Mine the last week in May. Shasa had taken the boys out of school a few days early, which in itself was enough to put everybody in the right mood and ensure a splendid beginning. He had commandeered four of the mine’s trucks and made up a full team of safari boys, including drivers, camp servants, skinners, trackers, gun-bearers and the chef from the H’ani Mine Club. Of course, Shasa’s own personal hunting vehicle was always kept in the mine workshops, tuned to perfection and ready to go at any time. It was an ex-Army jeep which had been customized and modified by the mine engineers without regard to expense. It had everything from longrange fuel tanks and gun racks to a short-wave radio set, and the seats were upholstered in genuine zebra skin while the paintwork was an artistic creation in bush camouflage. Proudly the boys clipped their Winchester .22 repeaters into the gun rack beside Shasa’s big .375 Holland and Holland magnum, and dressed in their new khaki bush jackets scrambled into their seats in the jeep. As was the right of the eldest, Sean sat up front beside his father, with Michael and Garry in the open back.

  ‘Anybody want to change his mind and stay at home?’ Shasa asked as he started the jeep, and they took the question seriously, shaking their heads in unison, eyes shining and faces pale with excitement, too overcome to speak.

  ‘Here we go, then,’ Shasa said and they dr
ove down the hill from the mine offices with the convoy of four trucks following them.

  The uniformed mine guards opened the main gates and gave them a flashy salute, grinning widely as the jeep passed, and behind them the camp boys on the backs of the open trucks started to sing one of the traditional safari songs.

  Weep, O you women, tonight you sleep alone

  The long road calls us and we must go—

  Their voices rose and fell to the eternal rhythm of Africa, full of its promise and mystery, echoing its grandeur and its savagery, setting the mood for the magical adventure into which Shasa took his sons.

  They drove hard those first two days to get beyond the areas which had been spoiled by men’s too frequent intrusions with rifle and four-wheel-drive vehicle, where the veld was almost bare of large game and those animals that they did see were in small herds that were running as soon as they heard the first hum of the jeep engine and were merely tiny specks in their own dust by the time they spotted them.

  Sadly Shasa realized how much had changed since his earliest memory of this country. He had been Sean’s age then and the herds of springbok and gemsbok had been on every side, great herds, trusting and confiding. There had been giraffe and lion, and small bands of Bushmen, those fascinating little yellow pygmies of the desert. Now, however, wild men and beast had all retreated before the inexorable advance of civilization deeper and deeper into the wilderness. Even now, Shasa could look ahead to the day when there would be no more wilderness, no more retreat for the wild things, when the roads and the railway lines would criss-cross the land and the endless villages and kraals would stand in the desolation they had created. The time when the trees were all cut down for firewood, and the grass was eaten to the roots by the goats and the topsoil turned to dust and blew on the wind. The vision filled him with sadness and a sense of despair, and he had to make a conscious effort to throw it off so as not to spoil the experience for his sons.

  ‘I owe them this glimpse of the past. They must know a little of the Africa that once was, before it has all gone, so that they will understand something of its glory.’ And he smiled and told them the stories, reaching back in his memory to bring out for them all his own experiences, and then going back further, to what he had learned from his own mother, and from his grandfather, trying to make clear to them the extent and depth of their family’s involvement with this land, and they sat late around the camp fire that first night, listening avidly until, despite themselves, their eyelids drooped and their heads began to nod.