Rage

by Wilbur Smith

  The discs were clustered most thickly along the great crescent of the Witwatersrand in the centre of the continent, although others were scattered across the entire map as the physical whereabouts of each person was confirmed by the police reports that were coming in every few seconds.

  Amongst the rash of black markers were a very few red discs, less than fifty in all. These represented the known members of the Central Committee of the African National Congress.

  Some of the names were those of Europeans; Harris, Marks, Fischer, and some were Asians like Naicker and Nana Sita, but the majority were African. Tambo and Sisulu and Mandela – they were all there. Mandela’s red disc was placed on the city of Johannesburg, while Moroka was in the Eastern Cape and Albert Luthuli was in Zululand.

  Manfred De La Rey was stony-faced as he stared at the map, and the senior police officers seated around him studiously avoided catching his eye or even looking directly at him. Manfred had a reputation of being the strongman of the cabinet. His colleagues privately referred to him as ‘Panga Man’ after the heavy chopping knife that was used in the cane fields and was the favourite weapon of the Mau Mau in Kenya.

  Manfred looked the part. He was a big man. The hands that lay on the table before him were still, there was no fidgeting of nervousness or uncertainty, and they were big hard hands. His face was becoming craggy now, and his jowls and thick neck heightened the sense of power that emanated from him. His men were afraid of him.

  ‘How many more?’ he asked suddenly, and the colonel sitting opposite him, a man with the medal ribbons of valour on his chest, started like a schoolboy and quickly consulted his list.

  ‘Four more to find – Mbeki, Mtolo, Mhlaba and Gama.’ He read out the names on his list that remained unticked, and Manfred De La Rey relapsed into silence.

  Despite his brooding stillness and forbidding expression, Manfred was pleased with the day’s work. It was not yet noon on the first day and already they had pinpointed the whereabouts of most of the ringleaders. Altogether the ANC had planned the entire campaign with quite extraordinary precision and had exhibited unusual thoroughness and foresight in its execution, Manfred reflected. He had not expected them to be so efficient, the African was notoriously lackadaisical and happy-go-lucky – but then they had the advice and assistance of their white Communist comrades. The protests and demonstrations and strikes were widespread and effective. Manfred grunted aloud and the officers at the table looked up apprehensively, but dropped their eyes hurriedly when he frowned.

  Manfred returned to his thoughts. No, not bad for a bunch of kaffirs, even with a few white men to help them. Yet their naïvety and amateurishness showed in their almost total lack of security and secrecy. They had blabbed as though they were at a beer-drink. Full of their own importance they had boasted of their plans and made little effort to conceal the identities of the leaders and cover their movements. The police informers had had little difficulty in picking up the information.

  There were, of course, exceptions and Manfred scowled as he considered the lists of leaders still unaccounted for. One name pricked like a burr, Moses Gama. He had made a study of the man’s file. After Mandela, he was probably the most dangerous of them all.

  ‘We must have him,’ he told himself. ‘We must get those two, Mandela and Gama.’ And now he spoke aloud, barking the question: ‘Where is Mandela?’

  ‘At the moment he is addressing a meeting in the community hall at Drake’s Farm township,’ the colonel answered promptly, glancing up at the red marker on the map. ‘He will be followed when he leaves, until we are ready to make the arrests.’

  ‘No word of Gama yet?’ Manfred asked impatiently, and the officer shook his head.

  ‘Not yet, Minister, he was last seen here on the Witwatersrand nine days ago. He might have gone underground. We may have to move without him.’

  ‘No,’ Manfred snapped. ‘I want him. I want Moses Gama.’

  Manfred relapsed into silence, brooding and intense. He knew that he was caught in the cross-currents of history. He could feel the good winds blowing at his back, set fair to carry him away on his course. He knew also that at any moment those winds might drop, and the ebb of his tide might set in. It was dangerous – mortally dangerous but still he waited. His father and his ancestors had all been huntsmen. They had hunted the elephant and lion and he had heard them speak of the patience and the waiting that was part of the hunt. Now Manfred was a hunter as they had been, but his quarry, though every bit as dangerous, was infinitely more cunning.

  He had set his snares with all the skill at his command. The banning orders, five hundred of them, were already made out. The men and women to whom they were addressed would be driven out from society into the wilderness. Prohibited from attending a gathering of more than three persons, physically confined to a single magisterial district, prohibited also from publishing a single written word and prevented from having their spoken word published by anyone else, their treacherous and treasonable voices would be effectively gagged. That was how he would deal with the lesser enemy, the smaller game of this hunt.

  For the others, the fifty big game, the dangerous ones, he had other weapons ready. The warrants of arrest had been drawn up and the charges framed. Amongst them were high treason and furthering the aims of international Communism, conspiracy to overthrow the government by violent revolution, incitement to public violence – and these, if proven, led directly to the gallows tree. Complete success was there, almost within his grasp, but at any moment it could be snatched away.

  At that moment a voice was raised so loudly in the operations room beyond the cubicle windows that they all looked up. Even Manfred swung his head towards the sound and narrowed his pale eyes. The officer who had spoken was sitting with his back to the window holding the telephone receiver to his ear, and scribbling on the notepad on the desk in front of him. Now he slammed the receiver back on to its bracket, ripped the top sheet off the pad and hurried into the map room.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded the super.

  ‘We’ve got him, sir.’ The man’s voice was shrill with excitement. ‘We’ve got Moses Gama. He is in Port Elizabeth. Less than two hours ago he was at the head of a riot at the New Brighton railway station. The police were attacked, and were forced to open fire in self-defence. At least seven people have been killed, one of them a nun. She was horribly mutilated – there is even an unconfirmed report that she was cannibalized – and her body has been burned.’

  ‘Are they sure it was him?’ Manfred asked.

  ‘No doubt, Minister. He was positively identified by an informer who knows him personally and the police captain has identified him by file and photograph.’

  ‘All right,’ Manfred De La Rey said. ‘Now we can move.’ He looked down at the Commissioner of Police at the far end of the long table. ‘Do it, please, Commissioner,’ he said, and picked up his dark fedora hat from the table. ‘Report to me the moment you have them all locked up.’

  He rode up in the lift to ground level and his chauffeur-driven limousine was waiting to take him back to his office in the Union Buildings. As he settled back against the leather-padded rear seat and the limousine pulled away, he smiled for the first time that morning.

  ‘A nun,’ he said aloud. ‘And they ate her!’ He shook his head with satisfaction. ‘Let the bleeding hearts of the world read that and know what kind of savages we are dealing with.’

  He felt the good winds of his fortune freshen, bearing him away towards those places which only recently he had allowed himself to dream of.

  When they got back to the mission, Moses helped Tara out of the Packard. She was still pale and shaking like a woman with malaria. Her clothing was ripped and soiled with blood and dirt, and she could hardly stand unaided.

  Kitty Godolphin and her camera crew had escaped the wrath of the mob by running across the railway tracks and hiding in a storm-water drain, then working their way in a wide circle back to the mission.

  ‘We�
��ve got to get out of here,’ Kitty yelled at Tara as she came out on to the verandah and saw Moses helping her up the steps. ‘I’ve got the most incredible footage of my life. I can’t trust it to anybody else. I want to get on the Pan Am flight from Jo’burg tomorrow morning and take the undeveloped cans to New York myself.’ She was so excited that her voice shook wildly, and like Tara her denim jeans were torn and dusty. However, she was already packed and ready to leave, carrying the red canvas tote bag that was all her luggage.

  ‘Did you film the nun?’ Moses demanded. ‘Did you film them killing Sister Nunziata?’

  ‘Sure did, sweetheart!’ Hank grinned. He was close behind Kitty. ‘Got it all.’

  ‘How many cans did you shoot?’ Moses insisted.

  ‘Four.’ Hank was so excited he could not stand still. He was bouncing on his toes and snapping his fingers.

  ‘Did you get the police shooting?’

  ‘All of it, sweetheart, all of it.’

  ‘Where is the film of the nun?’ Moses demanded.

  ‘Still in the camera.’ Hank slapped the Arriflex that hung by his side. ‘It’s all here, baby. I had just changed film when they grabbed the nun and ripped her up.’

  Moses left Tara leaning against the column of the verandah, and crossed to where Hank stood. He moved so casually that none of them realized what he was about to do. Kitty was still talking.

  ‘If we leave right away, we can be in Jo’burg by tomorrow morning. The Pan Am flight leaves at eleven thirty—’

  Moses had reached Hank’s side. He seized the heavy camera, twisting the carrying strap so that Hank was pulled up on his toes helplessly, and he unclipped the round magazine of film from its seat on top of the camera body. Then he turned and smashed the magazine against the brick column of the verandah.

  Kitty realized what he was doing and she flew at him like an angry cat, clawing for his eyes with her nails. ‘My film,’ she screeched. ‘God damn you to hell, that’s my film.’

  Moses shoved her so violently that she collided with Hank, taking him off balance and they fell over each other, sprawling together on the verandah floor.

  Moses hit the magazine again and this time the can burst open. The ribbon of glistening celluloid spilled out and cascaded over the retaining wall.

  ‘You’ve ruined it,’ Kitty screamed, coming to her feet and charging at him.

  Moses tossed the empty can away, and caught Kitty’s wrists, lifting her bodily off the ground and holding her effortlessly, though she struggled and kicked at him.

  ‘You have the film of police brutality, the murder of innocent blacks,’ he said. ‘The rest of it you were not meant to witness. I will not let you show that to the world.’ He pushed her away. ‘You may take the Packard.’

  Kitty glared at him, massaging her wrists where the skin was red from his grip and she spat like a cat.

  ‘I won’t forget that – one day you will pay for that, Moses Gama.’ Her malignancy was chilling.

  ‘Go,’ Moses commanded. ‘You have a plane to catch.’

  For a moment she hesitated, and then she whirled, picked up her tote bag.

  ‘Come on, Hank,’ she called, and she ran down the stairs to the Packard and sprang into the driver’s seat.

  ‘You cock-sucking bastard,’ Hank hissed at Moses as he passed. ‘That was the best stuff I ever scored.’

  ‘You’ve still got three cans,’ Moses said softly. ‘Be grateful for that.’

  Moses watched them drive away in the Packard and then turned to Tara.

  ‘We must move very fast now – the police will act at once. We have to get out of the township before they cordon it off. I am a marked man – we have to get clear.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Tara asked.

  ‘Come, I’ll explain later,’ Moses said and hustled her towards the Buick. ‘First, we must get clear.’

  Tara gave the salesman a cheque and waited in the tiny cubicle of his office that stank of cheap cigar smoke while he phoned her bank in Cape Town.

  There was a crumpled newspaper on the cluttered desk, and she picked it up and read it avidly.

  SEVEN DEAD IN P.E. RIOTS

  NATIONWIDE DISTURBANCES

  500 ACTIVISTS BANNED

  MANDELA ARRESTED

  Almost the entire newspaper was devoted to the defiance campaign and its consequences. At the bottom of the page, under the lurid accounts of the killing and the cannibalization of Sister Nunziata, there were accounts of the action taken by the ANC in other sectors of the country. Thousands had been arrested, and there were photographs of protesters being loaded into police vans, grinning cheerfully and giving the thumbs-up sign that had become the protester’s salute.

  The inner page of the newspaper gave the lists of almost five hundred persons who had been banned, and explained the consequences of the banning orders – how they effectively terminated the public life of the victim.

  There was also the much shorter list of persons who had been arrested for high treason and furthering the aims of the Communist Party, and Tara bit her lip when she saw Moses Gama’s name. The police spokesman must have anticipated his arrest, but it was proof that the precautions Moses was taking were wise. High treason was a capital offence, and she had a mental picture of Moses, his head hooded, twisting and kicking from the gallows crossbeam. She shuddered and thrust the image aside, concentrating on the rest of the newspaper.

  There were photographs, most of them murky and indistinct, of the leaders of the ANC, and she smiled humourlessly as she realized that these were the first fruits of the campaign. Up to this moment, not one in a hundred white South Africans had ever heard of Moses Gama, Nelson Mandela, or any of the other leaders, but now they had come bursting in on the national conscience. The world suddenly knew who they were.

  The middle pages were mostly filled with public reaction to the campaign and to the government’s countermeasures. It was too soon for the foreign reactions, but local opinion seemed almost unanimous: condemnation of the barbaric murder of Sister Nunziata, and high praise for police courage and the swift action of the Minister of Police in crushing the Communist-inspired plot.

  The editor wrote:

  We have not always been able to commend the actions and utterances of the Minister of Police. However, the need finds the man and we are thankful this day that a man of courage and strength stands between us and the forces of anarchy—

  Tara’s reading was interrupted by the used-car salesman. He bustled back into the tiny office to fawn on Tara and to gush.

  ‘My dear Mrs Courtney, you must forgive me. I had no idea who you were, or I would never have subjected you to the humiliation of querying your cheque.’

  He ushered her out to the yard, bowing and grinning ingratiatingly, and held open the door of the 1951-model black Cadillac for which Tara had just given her cheque for almost a thousand pounds.

  Tara drove down the hill and parked on the Donkin overlooking the sea. The military and naval outfitters were only half a block down the main street and from their stocks she picked out a chauffeur’s cap with a glossy patent-leather peak and a dove-grey tunic with brass buttons in Moses’ size which the assistant packed in a brown paper bag.

  Back in the new Cadillac she drove slowly down to the main railway station and parked opposite the entrance. She left the key in the ignition and slipped into the back seat. Within five minutes Moses came out. He was dressed in grubby blue overalls and the police constable at the railway entrance did not even glance at him. Moses sauntered down the sidewalk and as he drew level with the Cadillac Tara passed the paper bag through the open window.

  Within ten minutes Moses was back, the overalls discarded, wearing the chauffeur’s cap and smart new tunic over his dark slacks and black shoes. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

  ‘You were right. There is a warrant out for your arrest,’ she said softly.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘There is a newspap
er on the seat.’ She had folded it open at the report on his arrest. He read it swiftly, and then eased the Cadillac out into the traffic stream.

  ‘What are you going to do, Moses? Will you give yourself up and stand trial?’

  ‘The courtroom would be a platform from which to speak to the world,’ he mused.

  ‘And if you were convicted, the gallows would be an even more riveting pulpit,’ she pointed out acidly, and he smiled at her in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘We need martyrs – every cause must have martyrs.’

  ‘My God, Moses, how can you speak like that? Every cause needs a leader. There are many who would make fine martyrs, but very few who can lead.’

  He drove in silence for a while and then he said firmly, ‘We will go to Johannesburg. I must talk to the others before I decide.’

  ‘Most of the others have been arrested,’ Tara pointed out.

  ‘Not all.’ He shook his head. ‘I must talk to those who have escaped. How much money do you have?’

  She opened her handbag and counted the notes she had in her purse.

  ‘Over a hundred pounds.’

  ‘More than enough,’ he nodded. ‘Be prepared to play the grand lady when the police stop us.’

  They ran into the first road-block on the outskirts of the city at the Swartkops bridge. There was a line of cars and heavy vehicles and they moved forward slowly, stopping and starting, until two police constables signalled them over and a young police warrant officer came to the passenger window.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mevrou.’ He touched his cap. ‘May we look in the boot of your car?’

  ‘What is this about, officer?’

  ‘The troubles, madam. We are looking for the troublemakers who killed the nun and ate her.’

  Tara leaned forward and spoke sharply to Moses. ‘Open the boot for the policeman, Stephen.’ And Moses climbed out and held the lid open while the constables made a cursory search. Not one of them looked at his face, the chauffeur’s uniform had rendered him miraculously invisible.