Rage

by Wilbur Smith

  Michael saw the tops of the gates begin to move, toppling and bending under the strain, and as they went over there was a scattered volley of thrown rocks and bricks, and then, like the waters of a broken dam, the crowd rushed forward.

  . Michael had never heard the sound of sub-machine-gun fire before. So he did not recognize it, but he had heard a bullet striking flesh during that childhood safari on which his father had taken the brothers.

  The sound was unmistakable, a meaty thumping, almost like a housewife beating a dusty carpet. However, he couldn’t believe it, not until he saw the policemen on the cabs of the vehicles. Even in his horror he noticed how the weapons they held jumped and spurted tiny petals of fire an instant before the sound reached him.

  The crowd broke and ran at the first buzzing bursts of fire. They spread out like ripples across a pond, streaming back past where Michael stood, and incredibly some of them were laughing, as though they had not realized what was happening, as though it were all some silly game.

  In front of the broken gates the bodies were strewn most thickly, nearly all of them face down and with their heads pointing outwards, in the direction they were running as they were struck down, but there were others further out and the guns were still clamouring and people were still falling right beside where Michael stood, and the area around the police station was clear, so that through the dust he could see the figures of the uniformed police beyond the sagging wire. Some of them were reloading and others were still firing.

  Michael heard the flitting sound of bullets passing close beside his head, but he was too mesmerized and shocked to duck or even to flinch.

  Twenty paces away a young couple ran back past him. He recognized them as the pair who had headed the procession earlier, the tall good-looking lad and the pretty moon-faced girl. They were still holding hands, the boy dragging the girl along with him, but as they passed Michael the girl broke free and doubled back to where a child was standing bewildered and lost amongst the carnage.

  As the girl stooped to pick up the child, the bullets hit her. She was thrown back abruptly as though she had reached the end of an invisible leash, but she stayed on her feet for a few seconds longer, and Michael saw the bullets come out through her back at the level of her lowest ribs. For a brief moment they raised little tented peaks in the cloth of her blouse, and then erupted in pink smoky puffs of blood and tissue.

  The girl pirouetted and began to sag. As she turned, Michael saw the two entry wounds in her chest, dark studs on the white cloth, and she collapsed on to her knees.

  Her companion ran back to try and support her, but she slipped through his hands and fell forward on her face. The boy dropped down beside her and lifted her in his arms, and Michael saw his expression. He had never before seen such desolation and human suffering in another being.

  Raleigh held Amelia in his arms. Her head drooped against his shoulder like that of a sleepy child and he could feel her blood soaking into his clothing. It was hot as spilled coffee and it smelled sickly sweet in the heat.

  Raleigh groped in his pocket and found his handkerchief. Gently he wiped the dust from her cheeks and from the corners of her mouth, for she had fallen with her face against the earth.

  He was crooning to her softly, ‘Wake up, my little moon. Let me hear your sweet voice—’

  Her eyes were open and he turned her head slightly to look into them. ‘It is me, Amelia, it is Raleigh – don’t you see me?’ But even as he stared into her widely distended pupils a milky sheen spread over them, dulling out their dark beauty.

  He hugged her harder, pressing her unresisting head against his chest and he began to rock her, humming softly to her as though she were an infant, and he looked out across the field.

  The bodies were strewn about like overripe fruit fallen from the bough. Some of them were moving, an arm straightened or a hand unclenched, an old man began to crawl past where Raleigh knelt, dragging a shattered leg behind him.

  Then the police officers were coming out through the sagging gates. They wandered about the field in a dazed uncertain manner, still carrying their empty weapons dangling from limp hands, stopping to kneel briefly beside one of the bodies, and then standing again and walking on.

  One of them approached. As he came closer Raleigh recognized the blond captain who had seized him at the gate. He had lost his cap and the top button was missing from his tunic. His crew-cut hair was darkened with sweat, and droplets of sweat stood on his waxen pale forehead. He stopped a few paces off and looked at Raleigh. Although his hair was blond, his eyebrows were dark and thick and his eyes were yellow as those of a leopard. Raleigh knew then how he had earned his nickname. Those pale eyes were underscored with smudges of fatigue and horror, dark as old bruises, and his lips were dry and cracked.

  They stared at each other – the black man kneeling in the dust with the dead woman in his arms and the uniformed white man with the empty Sten gun in his hands.

  ‘I didn’t mean it to happen—’ said Lothar De La Rey and his voice croaked, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Raleigh did not answer, gave no sign of having heard or understood and Lothar turned away and walked back, picking his way amongst the dead and the maimed, back into the laager of wire mesh.

  The blood on Raleigh’s clothing began to cool, and when he touched Amelia’s cheek again he felt the warmth going out of it also. Gently he closed her eyelids, and then he unbuttoned the front of her blouse. There was very little bleeding from the two entry wounds. They were just below her pointed virgin breasts, small dark mouths in her smooth amber-coloured skin, set only inches apart. Raleigh ran two fingers of his right hand into those bloody mouths, and there was residual warmth in her torn flesh.

  ‘With my fingers in your dead body,’ he whispered. ‘With the fingers of my right hand in your wounds, I swear an oath, my love. You will be avenged. I swear it on our love, upon my life and upon your death. You will be avenged.’

  In the days of anxiety and turmoil following the massacre of Sharpeville, Verwoerd and his Minister of Police acted with resolution and strength.

  A state of emergency was declared in almost half of South Africa’s magisterial districts. Both the PAC and ANC were banned and those of their supporters suspected of incitement and intimidation were arrested and detained under the emergency regulations. Some estimates put the figure of detainees as high as eighteen thousand.

  In early April at the meeting of the full cabinet to discuss the emergency, Shasa Courtney risked his political future by rising to address a plea to Dr Verwoerd for the abolition of the pass book system. He had prepared his speech with care, and the genuine concern he felt for the importance of the subject made him even more than usually eloquent. As he spoke he became gradually aware that he was winning the support of some of the other senior members of the cabinet.

  ‘In a single stroke we will be removing the main cause of black dissatisfaction, and depriving the revolutionary agitators of their most valuable weapon,’ he pointed out.

  Three other senior ministers followed Shasa, each voicing their support for the abolition of the dompas, but from the top of the long table Verwoerd glowered at them, becoming every minute more angry until at last he jumped to his feet.

  ‘The idea is completely out of the question. The reference books are there for an essential purpose: to control the influx of blacks into the urban areas.’

  Within a few minutes he had brutally bludgeoned the proposal to death, and made it clear that to try to resurrect it would be political suicide for any member of the cabinet, no matter how senior.

  Within days Dr Hendrik Verwoerd was himself on the brink of the chasm. He visited Johannesburg to open the Rand Easter Show. He made a reassuring speech to the huge audience that filled the arena of the country’s largest agricultural and industrial show, and as he sat down, to thunderous applause, a white man of insignificant appearance made his way between the tiers of seats and in full view of everybody drew a pistol and holding it to
Dr Verwoerd’s head fired two shots.

  With blood pouring down his face Verwoerd collapsed, and security guards overpowered his assailant. Both bullets, fired at point-blank range, had penetrated the Prime Minister’s skull, and yet his most remarkable tenacity and will to survive, combined with the expert medical attention he received, saved him.

  In little more than a month he had left hospital and had once more taken up his duties as the head of state. The assassination attempt seemed to have been without motive or reason, and the assailant was judged insane and placed in an asylum. By the time Dr Verwoerd had fully recovered from the attempt on his life calm had been restored to the country as a whole, and Manfred De La Rey’s police were in total control once more.

  Naturally the reaction of the international community towards the slaughter and the subsequent measures to regain control was heavily critical. America led the rest in her condemnations, and within months had instituted an embargo on the sale of arms to South Africa. More damaging than the reaction of foreign governments was the crash on the Johannesburg stock exchange, the collapse of property values and the attempted flight of capital out of the country. Strict exchange-control regulations were swiftly imposed to forestall this.

  Manfred De La Rey had come out of it all with his power and position greatly enhanced. He had acted the way his people expected him to, with strength and forthright determination. There was no doubt at all now that he was one of the senior members of the cabinet and in the direct line of succession to Hendrik Verwoerd. He had smashed the Pan-Africanist Congress and the ANC. Their leaders were in total disarray and all of them were in hiding or had fled the country.

  With the safety of the state secured, Dr Verwoerd could at last turn his full attention to the momentous business of realizing the golden dream of Afrikanerdom – the Republic.

  The referendum was held in October 1960, and so great were the feelings, for and against, engendered by the prospect of breaking with the British crown that there was a ninety per cent poll. Cunningly, Verwoerd had decreed that a simple majority, and not the usual two-thirds majority, would suffice, and on the day he got his majority: 850,000 to 775,000. The Afrikaner response was an hysteria of joy, of speeches and wild rejoicing.

  In March the following year Verwoerd and his entourage went to London to attend the conference of the Commonwealth prime ministers. He came out of the meeting to tell the world, ‘In the light of opinions expressed by other member governments of the Commonwealth regarding South Africa’s race policies, and in the light of future plans regarding the race policies of the South African Government, I told the other prime ministers that I was withdrawing my country’s application for continued membership of the Commonwealth after attaining the status of a republic.’

  From Pretoria Manfred De La Rey cabled Verwoerd, ‘You have preserved the dignity and pride of your country, and the nation owes you eternal gratitude.’

  Verwoerd returned home to the adulation and hero worship of his people. In the heady euphoria, very few, even amongst the English-speaking opposition, realized just how many doors Verwoerd had locked and barred behind him and just how cold and bleak the winds that Macmillan had predicted would blow across the southern tip of Africa in the coming years.

  With the Republic safely launched Verwoerd could at last select his praetorian guard to protect it and hold it strong. Erasmus, the erstwhile Minister of Justice who had acted neither as ruthlessly nor as resolutely as was expected during the emergency, was packed off as the ambassador of the new Republic to Rome, and Verwoerd presented two new ministers to his cabinet.

  The new Minister of Defence was the member for the constituency of George in the Cape, P. W. Botha, while Erasmus’s replacement as Minister of Justice was Balthazar Johannes Vorster. Shasa Courtney knew Vorster well, and as he listened to him make his first address to the cabinet he reflected how much like Manfred De La Rey the man was.

  They were almost the same age and, like Manfred, Vorster had been a member of the extreme right-wing anti-Smuts pro-Nazi Ossewa Brandwag during the war. Whereas it was generally accepted that Manfred had remained in Germany during the war years – although he was very mysterious and secretive about that period of his life – John Vorster had been interned in Smuts’ Koffiefontein concentration camp for the duration.

  Both Vorster and De La Rey had been educated at Stellenbosch University, the citadel of Afrikanerdom, and their political careers had run closely parallel courses. Although Manfred had won his seat in parliament in the historic 1948 elections, John Vorster in the same elections had gained the distinction of being the only candidate in South African history to lose by a mere two votes. Later, in 1953, he vindicated himself by winning the same Brakpan seat with a majority of seven hundred.

  Now that the two of them were seated at the long table in the cabinet room, their physical resemblance was striking. They were both heavy rugged-looking men, with bulldog features, both obdurate, unflinching and tough, the epitome of the hard Boer.

  Vorster confirmed this for Shasa as he began to speak, leaning forward aggressively, confident and articulate. ‘I believe we are in a fight to the death with the forces of Communism, and that we cannot defeat subversion or thwart revolution by closely observing the Queensberry rules. We have to put aside the old precepts of habeas corpus, and arm ourselves with new legislation that will enable us to pre-empt the enemy, to pick out their leaders and put them àway where they can do little harm. This is not a new concept, gentlemen.’

  Vorster smiled down the table and Shasa was struck by the way in which his dour features lit up with that impish smile.

  ‘You all know where I spent the war years, without the benefit of trial. Let me tell you right now – it worked. It kept me out of mischief and that’s what I intend to do with those who would destroy this land – keep them out of mischief. I want power to detain any person whom I know to be an enemy of the state, without trial, for a period of up to ninety days.’

  It was a masterly performance and Shasa felt some trepidation in having to follow it, especially when he could not be so sanguine in his own view of the future.

  ‘At the moment I have two major concerns,’ he told his colleagues seriously. ‘The first is the arms embargo placed upon us by the Americans. I believe that other countries are soon going to bow to American pressure and extend the embargo. One day we might even have the ridiculous situation where Great Britain will refuse to sell us the arms we need for our own defence.’ Some of the others at the table fidgeted and looked incredulous. Shasa assured them: ‘We cannot afford to underestimate this hysteria of America for what they call civil rights. Remember that they sent troops to help force blacks into white schools.’ The memory of that appalled them all and there were no further signs of disbelief as Shasa went on. ‘A nation who can do that will do anything. My aim is to make this country totally self-sufficient in conventional armaments within five years.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ Verwoerd asked sharply.

  ‘I believe so.’ Shasa nodded. ‘Fortunately, this eventuality has been anticipated. You yourself warned me of the possibility of an arms embargo when you appointed me, Prime Minister.’

  Verwoerd nodded and Shasa repeated, ‘This is my aim; self-sufficient in conventional weapons in five years—’ Shasa paused dramatically. ‘And nuclear capable in ten years.’

  This was stretching their credulity and there were interjections and sharp questions, so that Shasa held up his hands and spoke firmly.

  ‘I am deadly serious, gentlemen. We can do it! Given certain circumstances.’

  ‘Money,’ said Hendrik Verwoerd, and Shasa nodded.

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister, money. Which brings me to my second major consideration.’ Shasa drew a deep breath, and steeled himself to broach an unpalatable truth. ‘Since the Sharpeville shootings, we have had a crippling flight of capital from the country. Cecil Rhodes was wont to say that the Jews were his birds of good omen. When the Jews came, an enterprise o
r a country was assured of success, and when the Jews left you could expect the worst. Well the sad truth, gentlemen, is that our Jews are leaving. We have to entice them to stay and bring back those who have already left.’

  Again there was restlessness around the table. The National Party had been conceived on that wave of anti-Semitism between the world wars, and although it had abated since then, traces of it still existed.

  ‘These are the facts, gentlemen.’ Shasa ignored their discomfort. ‘Since Sharpeville, the value of property has collapsed to half what it was before the shooting, and the stock market is at its lowest since the dark days of Dunkirk. The businessmen and investors of the world are convinced that this government is tottering and on the point of capitulating to the forces of Communism and darkness. They see us as being engulfed in despondency and anarchy, with black mobs burning and looting and white civilization about to go up in flames.’ They laughed derisively and John Vorster made a bitter interjection.

  ‘I have just explained what steps we will take.’

  ‘Yes.’ Shasa cut him off quickly. ‘We know that the foreign view is distorted. We know that we still have a strong and stable government, that the country is prosperous and productive and that the vast majority of our people, both black and white, are law-abiding and content. We know that we have our guardian angel, gold, to protect us. But we have to convince the rest of the world.’

  ‘Do you think that’s possible, man?’ Manfred asked quickly.

  ‘Yes, with a full-scale and concerted campaign to give the truth of the situation to the businessmen of the world,’ Shasa said. ‘I have recruited most of our own leaders in industry and commerce to assist. We will go out at our own expense to explain the truth. We will invite them here – journalists, businessmen and friends – to see for themselves how tranquil and how under control the country truly is, and just how rich are the opportunities.’