Rage

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Thank you, lady.’

  The warrant officer waved them through and Moses murmured, ‘That was most unflattering. I thought I was a celebrity now.’

  It was a long and arduous drive from the coast, but Moses drove sedately, careful not to give anyone an excuse to stop them and question them more carefully.

  As he drove he tuned the Cadillac’s wireless for the South African Broadcasting Corporation’s hourly news bulletin. The reception was intermittent as the terrain varied, but they picked up one exciting item.

  The Soviet Union supported by her allies had demanded an urgent debate in the United Nations’ General Assembly on the situation in the country. This was the first time the UN had ever shown an interest in South Africa. For that alone all their sacrifice had been worthwhile. However, the rest of the news was disquieting. Over eight thousand protesters had been arrested and all the leaders banned or picked up, and a spokesman for the Minister of Police assured the country that the situation was firmly under control.

  They drove on until after dark when they stopped at one of the small Orange Free State hotels that catered mainly for commercial travellers. When Tara asked for board and lodging for her chauffeur the request was taken as matter of course because all the travellers employed coloured drivers, and Moses was sent around the back to the servants’ quarters in the hotel yard.

  After the plain and unappetizing fare in the hotel dining room, Tara telephoned Weltevreden, and Sean answered on the second ring. They had returned from their hunting safari with Shasa the previous day, and were garrulous and excited. Each of the boys spoke to her in turn, so she was treated to three separate accounts of how Garrick had shot a man-eating lion. Then Isabella came on the line, and her sweet childish lisp tugged at Tara’s heart, making her feel dreadfully guilty at her lack of maternal duty. Yet none of the children, Isabella included, seemed to have missed her in the least. Isabella was just as long-winded as her brothers in recounting all the things that she and Nana had done together, and the new dress that Nana had bought her and the doll that grandpa Blaine had brought back from England especially for her. None of them asked her how she was and when she was coming home to Weltevreden.

  Shasa came on the line last, distant but friendly. ‘We are all having a wonderful time – Garry shot a lion—’

  ‘Oh God, Shasa, don’t you tell me about it, I’ve already had three accounts of the poor beast’s death.’

  Within a few minutes they had run out of things to say to each other. ‘Well then, old thing, take care of yourself. I see the uglies are cutting up rather rough on the Rand, but De La Rey has it well in hand,’ Shasa ended. ‘Don’t get caught up in any unpleasantness.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she promised. ‘Now I’ll let you go in to dinner.’ Shasa liked to dine at eight o’clock sharp and it was four minutes before the hour. She knew he was already dressed and checking his watch. When she hung up she realized that he hadn’t asked her where she was, what she was doing or when she was coming home.

  ‘Saved me from having to lie,’ she consoled herself.

  From her bedroom she could look over the hotel yard, and the lights were on in the servants’ quarters. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with loneliness. It was so chilling, that she seriously thought about creeping across the yard to be with him. It took an effort of will to thrust that madness aside, and instead she picked up the telephone again and asked the operator for the number at Puck’s Hill.

  A servant, with a marked African accent, answered and Tara’s heart sank. It was vital that they find out whether the Rivonia house was still safe. They could be going into a police trap.

  ‘Is Nkosi Marcus there?’ she demanded.

  ‘Nkosi Marcus no here, he go away, missus,’ the servant told her. ‘You Missus Tara?’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ Although she did not remember a servant, he must have recognized her voice, and she was about to go on when Marcus Archer spoke in his normal voice.

  ‘Forgive me, my dear, for the music-hall impression, but the sky has fallen in here. Everybody is in a panic – the pigs have moved much quicker than anybody expected. Joe and I are the only ones to survive, as far as I know. How is our good friend, have they got him?’

  ‘He’s safe. Can we come to Puck’s Hill?’

  ‘So far it seems as though they have overlooked us here, but do be careful, won’t you? There are road-blocks everywhere.’

  Tara slept very little and was up before dawn to begin the last leg of the journey. The hotel chef had made her a packet of corned-beef sandwiches and a thermos of hot tea, so they breakfasted as they drove. Any stop would increase their chances of discovery and arrest, and except to refuel they kept going and crossed the Vaal River before noon.

  Tara had been seeking the right moment to tell Moses ever since she had returned to the Transvaal to be near him, but now she knew that there would never be a right moment and that within hours they would be at Puck’s Hill. After that nothing was certain except that there would be confusion and great danger for all of them.

  ‘Moses,’ she addressed the back of his head in a resolute voice, ‘I can’t keep it from you any longer. I have to tell you now. I am bearing your child.’

  She saw his head flinch slightly and then those dark mesmeric eyes were glowering at her in the driver’s mirror.

  ‘What will you do?’ he asked. He had not asked if she were certain nor had he queried his paternity of the child. That was typical of him – and yet he had accepted no responsibility either. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I am not sure yet. I will find a way to have it.’

  ‘You must get rid of it.’

  ‘No,’ she cried vehemently. ‘Never. He’s mine. I will take care of him.’

  He did not remark on her choice of the masculine pronoun.

  ‘The child will be half-caste,’ he told her. ‘Are you prepared for that?’

  ‘I will find a way,’ she insisted.

  ‘I cannot help you – not at all,’ he went on remorselessly. ‘You understand that.’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ she answered. ‘You can tell me that you are pleased that I am carrying your son – and that you will love him, as I love his father.’

  ‘Love?’ he said. ‘That is not an African word. There is no word for love in my vocabulary.’

  ‘Oh, Moses, that is not true. You love your people.’

  ‘I love them as a people entire, not as individuals. I would sacrifice any one of them for the good of the whole.’

  ‘But our son, Moses. Something precious that we have made between us – don’t you feel anything at all for him?’

  She watched his eyes in the mirror and saw the pain in them.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘Of course I do. Yet I dare not acknowledge it. I must lock such feelings away lest they weaken my resolve and destroy us all.’

  ‘Then I will love him for both of us,’ she said softly.

  As Marcus Archer had warned Tara, there were more road-blocks. As they drew closer to the great industrial and mining complex of the Witwatersrand they were stopped three times, the last at Halfway House, but each time the chauffeur’s uniform and Tara’s white face and haughty manner protected him.

  Tara had expected Johannesburg to be like a city under siege, but the road-blocks and the news posters on the street corners were the only indications of something unusual afoot. The headgear wheels of the mines they passed were spinning busily, and beyond the perimeter fences they saw the black miners in gumboots and shiny hard hats flocking to the shaft heads.

  When they passed through downtown Johannesburg, the city streets were crowded as usual with shoppers of all races and their faces were cheerful and relaxed. Tara was disappointed. She was not sure what she had expected, but at least she had hoped for some visible sign that the people were on the march.

  ‘You cannot expect too much,’ Moses told her when she lamented that nothing had changed. ‘The forces against us are obdurate as granite, and the resources th
ey command are limitless. Yet it is a beginning – our first faltering step on the road to liberation.’

  They drove past Puck’s Hill slowly. It seemed deserted, and at least there were no signs of police activity. Moses parked the Cadillac in the wattle plantation at the back of the Country Club and left Tara while he went back on foot to make absolutely certain they were not running into a police trap.

  He was back within half an hour. ‘It’s safe. Marcus is there,’ he told her as he started the Cadillac and drove back.

  Marcus was waiting for them on the verandah. He looked tired and worn, and he had aged dramatically in the short time since Tara had last seen him.

  He led them into the long kitchen, and went back to the stove on which he was preparing a meal for them, and while he worked he told them everything that had happened in their absence.

  ‘The police reaction was so massive and immediate that it must have been carefully prepared. We expected a delay while they caught up with the situation and gathered themselves. We expected to be able to exploit that delay, and call upon the masses to join us in the defiance campaign until it gathered its own momentum and became irresistible, but they were ready for us. There are not more than a dozen of the leaders at large now, Moses is one of the lucky ones, and without leaders the campaign is already beginning to grind to a halt.’

  He glanced at Tara with a vindictive sparkle in his eye before he went on.

  ‘However, there are still some pockets of resistance – our little Victoria is doing sterling work. She has organized the nurses at Baragwanath and brought them out as part of the campaign. She won’t keep that up much longer – she’ll be arrested or banned pretty damn soon, you can bet on that.’

  ‘Vicky is a brave woman,’ Moses agreed. ‘She knows the risks, and she takes them willingly.’

  He looked straight at Tara as he said it, as if daring her to voice her jealousy. She knew of his marriage, of course, but she had never spoken of it. She knew what the consequences would be, and now she dropped her eyes, unable to meet his challenge.

  ‘We have underestimated this man De La Rey,’ Moses said. ‘He is a formidable opponent. We have achieved very little of what we hoped for.’

  ‘Still, the United Nations is debating our plight,’ Tara said quietly without looking up again.

  ‘Debating,’ Moses agreed scornfully. ‘But it requires only a single veto from America or Britain or France, and no action will be taken. They will talk and talk while my people suffer.’

  ‘Our people,’ Marcus chided him. ‘Our people, Moses.’

  ‘My people,’ Moses contradicted him harshly. ‘The others are all in prison. I am the only leader who remains. They are my people.’ There was silence in the kitchen, except for the scrape of utensils on the plates as they ate, but Marcus was frowning and it was he who broke the silence.

  ‘So what happens now?’ he asked. ‘Where will you go? You cannot stay here, the police may swoop at any moment. Where will you go?’

  ‘Drake’s Farm?’ Moses mused.

  ‘No.’ Marcus shook his head. ‘They know you too well there. The moment you arrive the whole township will know and there are police informers everywhere. It will be the same as turning yourself in at the nearest police station.’

  They were silent again until Moses asked, ‘Where is Joe Cicero? Have they taken him?’

  ‘No,’ Marcus answered. ‘He has gone underground.’

  ‘Can you contact him?’

  ‘We have an arrangement. He will ring me here – if not tonight, then tomorrow.’

  Moses looked across the table at Tara. ‘Can I come with you to the expedition base at Sundi Caves? It’s the only safe place I can think of at the moment.’ And Tara’s spirits bounded. She would have him for a little longer still.

  Tara explained to Marion Hurst, not attempting to conceal Moses’ identity nor the fact that he was a fugitive, and she was not surprised by the American woman’s response.

  ‘It’s like Martin Luther King coming and asking me for sanctuary,’ she declared. ‘Of course I’ll do whatever I can to help.’

  As a cover, Marion gave Moses a job in the pottery section of the warehouse under the name of Stephen Khama, and he was absorbed immediately into the company of the expedition. Without asking questions the other members, both black and white, gathered around to shield him.

  Despite Marcus Archer’s assurances, it was almost a week before he was able to contact Joe Cicero, and another day before he could arrange for them to meet. The hardest possible way they had learned not to underestimate the vigilance of the police, while Joe Cicero had always been secretive and professional. Nobody was certain where he lived or how he maintained himself, his comings and goings were unannounced and unpredictable.

  ‘I have always thought him to be theatrical and overcareful, but now I see the wisdom behind it,’ Moses told Tara as they drove into the city. Moses was once more dressed in his chauffeur’s uniform. ‘From now on we must learn from the professionals, for those ranged against us are the hardest of professionals.’

  Joe Cicero came out of the entrance of the Johannesburg railway station as Moses stopped the Cadillac for the red light at the pedestrian crossing, and he slipped unobtrusively into the back seat beside Tara. Moses pulled away, heading out in the direction of Doornfontein.

  ‘I congratulate you on still being at large,’ Joe told Moses wryly, as he lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last and glanced sideways at Tara. ‘You are Tara Courtney,’ and smiled at her surprise. ‘What is your part in all this?’

  ‘She is a friend,’ Moses spoke for her. ‘She is committed to us. You may speak freely in front of her.’

  ‘I never speak freely,’ Joe murmured. ‘Only an idiot does that.’ They were all silent then until Joe asked suddenly, ‘And so, my friend, do you still believe that the revolution can be won without blood? Are you still one of the pacifists who would play the game by the rules that the oppressor makes and changes at will?’

  ‘I have never been a pacifist,’ Moses’ voice rumbled. ‘I have always been a warrior.’

  ‘I rejoice to hear you say it, for it confirms what I have always believed.’ Joe smiled a sly and inscrutable smile behind the fringe of dark beard. ‘If I did not, I would not be sitting here now.’ Then his tone altered. ‘Make a U-turn here and take the Krugersdorp road!’ he ordered.

  The three of them were silent while Joe turned to scrutinize the following traffic. After a minute he seemed satisfied and relaxed in the back seat. Moses drove out of the built-up areas into the open grassy veld. The traffic around them thinned, and abruptly Joe Cicero leaned forward and pointed ahead to an empty lay-by on the side of the road.

  ‘Pull in there,’ he ordered, and as Moses parked the Cadillac he opened the door beside him. As he stepped out he jerked his head. ‘Come!’

  When Tara opened her own door to join them, Joe snapped, ‘No, not you! Stay here!’

  With Moses at his side he walked through the stand of scraggly black wattle into the open veld beyond, out of sight of the road.

  ‘I told you the woman is trustworthy,’ Moses said, and Joe shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps. I do not take chances until it is necessary to do so.’ And then he changed direction. ‘I asked you once what you thought of Mother Russia.’

  ‘And I replied that she was a friend of the oppressed peoples of the world.’

  ‘She wishes to be your friend also,’ Joe said simply.

  ‘Do you mean me personally – Moses Gama?’

  ‘Yes, you personally – Moses Gama.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘There are men in Moscow who have watched you carefully for many years. What they have seen they approve of. They offer you the hand of friendship.’

  ‘I ask you again. How do you know this?’

  ‘I am a colonel in the Russian KGB. I have been ordered to tell you this.’

  Moses stared at him. It was moving so fast that h
e needed a respite to catch up.

  ‘What does the offer of friendship entail?’ he asked cautiously, buying time in which to think, and Joe Cicero nodded approvingly.

  ‘It is good you ask the terms of our friendship. It confirms our estimate of you. That you are a careful man. You will be given the answer to that in due course. In the meantime be content with the fact that we have singled you out above all others.’

  ‘Very well,’ Moses agreed. ‘But tell me why I have been chosen. There are other good men – Mandela is one of them.’

  ‘Mandela was considered, but we do not believe he has the steel. We detect a softness in him. Our psychologists believe that he will flinch from the hard and bloody work of the revolution. We know also that he does not have the same high regard for Mother Russia that you do. He has even called her the new oppressor, the colonialist of the twentieth century.’

  ‘What about the others?’ Moses asked.

  ‘There are no others,’ Joe told him flatly. ‘It was either you or Mandela. It is you. That is the decision.’

  ‘They want my answer now?’ Moses stared into the tar pits of his eyes, but they had a strangely lifeless dullness in them and Joe Cicero shook his head.

  ‘They want to meet you, talk to you, make sure you understand the bargain. Then you will be trained and groomed for the task ahead.’

  ‘Where will this meeting take place?’

  Joe smiled and shrugged. ‘In Moscow – where else?’ And Moses did not let his amazement show on his face, though his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

  ‘Moscow! How will I get there?’

  ‘It has been arranged,’ Joe assured him, and Moses lifted his head and stared at the tall thunderheads that rose in silver and blue splendour along the horizon. He was lost in thought for many minutes.

  He felt his spirits grow light and take wing up towards those soaring thunder clouds. It had come – the moment for which he had worked and waited a lifetime. Destiny had cleared the field of all his rivals, and he had been chosen.