A Chain of Voices

by Andre Brink

  In the absence of any entertainment or conversation, there had been much time for thought on the journey there and back. Rooy usually kept his distance, his cheeky little mug smiling defensively, his big black eyes alert like those of a ground squirrel; old Moses offered little more than occasional grunts in affirmation of whatever I’d said; and Campher would give brief replies to explicit questions but no more—although I’d noticed before that he would be quite loquacious when left alone with the laborers.

  Had I really been a failure in life? But what, exactly, was “failure”? Inevitably, it seems to me, one relinquishes whatever one may have presumed to possess; life is a taker away, and ceaselessly it prunes one. The most I could have hoped for was to be respected in my neighborhood. Not even that: just to be recognized and accepted by my neighbors, to be liked. But it had turned out otherwise. My parents regarded me as something of a wash-out, all the more conspicuous for having settled on the old family farm. My brother despised me as a weakling. My own wife regarded me as a husband not man enough to produce sons, a pursuer of black women. Hester had long ago, and utterly, rejected me. And from the way Galant looked at me or answered back it was obvious that even he had no regard for me: and we’d been so close. Who else was there? Bet, who still followed me wherever I went, clearly biding her time to avenge the death of her child? Pamela, whom I couldn’t look in the eyes as she carried her white child from hut to house?

  I avoided the vicious if unspoken reproach in Cecilia’s attitude about Pamela’s white baby. Couldn’t God have taken the child away from my sight? But this was undoubtedly His punishment, daily to confront me and force me into abject humility. Unendurable. Leaving me no choice but to throw me on His mercy. There were days when I wished Cecilia would send the woman back to her father’s place where she’d come from: at the same time I knew, and Cecilia perversely concurred, that my sin had to be kept in front of my eyes.

  The only people unconditionally mine were the children. Helena. Little Hester. Katrien. They never asked questions and never judged. Holding two by the hand and carrying one on my shoulders, I would roam the farm with them. Small arms throttling me with love; fervent wet kisses like a licking of puppies; a smell of sun and dust and bruised flowers. Precarious innocence, and terribly transient. For when the teacher arrived, which was very soon now, I knew the inevitable estrangement would begin. In fact, it had already begun, as gradually Cecilia was taking over, prompted by the consideration that it was “improper” for them to run about wild with their father, in sun or wind. Only a little while longer before they would begin to conspire with her against me and my man’s world; drawn ever more resolutely into their mother’s. A whetting of loneliness. In the beginning everything must have been whole; undoubtedly. The care of a mother, the awesome strength of a father; a brother’s regard; the trust of a friend who accompanied one everywhere, sharing everything. But how soon it was blemished, how inexorably diminished.—You’re too much of a fancy turd.—Barend told me about their plans this morning.—It’s the sort of thing I’d have expected of Barend, not of you. I’m ashamed of you.—A lion with a great black mane sinking into a wretched little heap: freedom ruthlessly curtailed. The only thing that had helped me to survive had been, ironically, the one thing that had most oppressed me in the beginning: the farm. And here we were on our way back to it, each bitterly turned in upon himself—Rooy; old Moses; Campher; I.

  I’d resented the whole idea of the journey. When March and April had passed without an opportunity to make the trip—the beans were late and a new land had to be broken and cleared—I’d already tacitly resolved to postpone it for a year. But the produce was accumulating—the soap and hides and pelts and bush-tea, the eggs and feathers and biltong—and Cecilia had reasons of her own: “The children are growing up, Nicolaas. I won’t have my daughters run about like savages. They need an education. You must find a teacher in Cape Town. Helena is ripe enough for school.” And when October brought a brief respite in the work before the full violence of the reaping and harvesting and threshing of summer would break upon us, I had no choice but to pack up.

  “You’ve been pestering me a long time to go to Cape Town with me,” I told Galant. “Now it’s your chance.”

  To my amazement he declined. “I’d rather stay. I been to the Cape now and I saw all I wanted to see.”

  “I really don’t understand you, Galant.”

  “If you order me to go I’ll go,” he answered in his sulky way. “But if I have a choice I’d rather stay.”

  The prospect of going without him depressed and frustrated me. I’d been thinking: perhaps, if he accompanied me, on the long road to Cape Town we might retrieve something of that lost night in the mountains. Now it was ruled out. Yet why, even at that stage, should I have thought of it as “a last chance”?

  After all, I tried to persuade myself, some good might come out of it if he stayed behind. Perhaps we needed the break, after what had happened in the winter, to clear our minds. And the farm would be safe in his care, in spite of everything. That was, perhaps, the most remarkable aspect of our relationship: that I still trusted him so unreservedly. And, admittedly, he’d changed since his return. Not that he’d opened up; but he was, it seemed to me, less squarely intransigent than before, as if in some subtle way his experiences in the Cape had matured or mellowed him. We might yet learn to live together. We were both older, and who knows a trifle wiser, more seasoned, less absolute. So I went to old D’Alree and persuaded him to lend me Campher for a month. He could hardly refuse, living as he did on our mercy. From Pa’s grazing place in the mountains I borrowed old Moses; and little Rooy was taken along to lead the oxen.

  “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” I assured Cecilia, who almost seemed relieved to see me go. If only she would attack me openly, I thought: but her humility was impenetrable. She was always so right in every respect, so exemplary in her devotion to her duty: feeling no doubt that God would appreciate her encouragement and approval for pursuing His inscrutable ways. I did not mean to feel ungrateful to my own wife; but she did make it difficult for a man to live up to her standards.

  The produce was sold quickly, and more profitably than in previous years, and soon I could proceed to buy the things on Cecilia’s list: linen and hats and chintz; coffee, sugar and spices; ammunition and two new guns for myself, and iron, tar and pitch. I was fortunate in finding a suitable schoolmaster too: a middle-aged, virtuous if somewhat uninspiring man called Verlee who’d recently married a girl not yet fifteen; they were living with her relatives in whose home their first baby had just been born. From the family, and the testimonials he showed me, I gleaned that he’d been an itinerant teacher in the Eastern Cape, spending three years in the environs of Graaff-Reinet before moving to Stellenbosch. The young wife’s relatives were eager to see them stay on in the Cape, but he’d set his mind on moving into the interior again, and so we arranged for him to start at Houd-den-Bek in February, by which time the harvest would be home and his wife’s baby more manageable; and Helena ready for school.

  I was introduced to him at a meeting, one of the many, I’d been told, held in Cape Town in recent months, mostly to discuss the slave question. All through the Colony it seemed frustration was reaching boiling point. And just as well that I was able to attend one of the meetings personally so I could hear for myself what was going on. Hearsay can cause such impossible distortions.

  Most of the people present were from Cape Town itself, but a considerable number were wine farmers from the environs and from Stellenbosch or further afield, even from as far as Swellendam. At the back of the hall a number of slaves had also taken up position, including old Moses, who’d always been as inquisitive as a monkey. It was announced, a statement received with great applause, that we’d had enough of ambiguity and prevarication; what we needed now was certainty. A week before, we were informed, a deputation had been to see the Governor; and on this occasion an offic
er was sent to report back—which in itself was rather extraordinary, as Lord Charles had a reputation for being unreasonable. The officer treated us with a surprising show of deference. In the beginning he was nearly shouted down by the rather unruly mob, but when it became obvious that he meant well he was allowed to continue unhindered. He’d brought a young Hottentot with him to interpret for us—a Pandoer very proud of his uniform, but at the same time as scared as anything in front of that congregation of hostile Boers, which made it quite amusing.

  According to the officer (as translated haltingly by the fearful young Pandoer), the Government was aware of our worries and was conducting a thorough investigation of the whole situation. A long report had already been sent to the King in England, and it shouldn’t take too long to receive a reply. Should the British Government decide on the emancipation of slaves—in which case there would be ample remuneration—we would be informed in good time. By the end of the year everything should be cleared up. If we hadn’t heard any news by then it meant that we would be free to continue as before. Otherwise messengers would be sent throughout the Colony, round about Christmas or New Year, with full particulars.

  A number of the farmers present grumbled about the new postponement. Some even threatened to attack the young Pandoer as if he’d been responsible for it all; but there were red-coated soldiers in all the doorways ready to prevent mischief. Most of the audience were prepared to accept the situation. After all, one couldn’t expect a final decision overnight. Personally, I was quite prepared to wait until New Year: then, at least, one should know whether one was to be master on one’s own farm and over one’s own slaves.

  There was a feeling among some of the farmers that we should anticipate a decision and resolve the uncertainty by liberating our own slaves immediately. I gave it much thought on the way back. But it was clear to me that that would be no solution. Suppose I were to free my own slaves—what about those on neighboring farms? Surely such a position would be quite untenable. One had to consider one’s neighbors too: no one was free simply to do what he wished. And the end of the year was close enough to wait for.

  So I cannot say that I felt dissatisfied as I reflected on what had been accomplished on the journey. Not satisfied, perhaps: but not outright dissatisfied either.

  In the narrow highland valley, pale in the summer light, the wagon seemed to lumber on by itself. The oxen must have smelled the grazing of Houd-den-Bek; the ones in front were playfully tossing their horns so that Rooy had to pull in his back and trot briskly to stay out of their reach.

  Naturally I stopped at Elandsfontein. From a long distance off I already kept my eyes open for Hester’s skirt. But Barend was alone at home: she’d gone to the veld on her own, he replied to my query—nothing it seemed would domesticate her. The two of us sat in the voorhuis drinking some of the new coffee I’d brought with me, while Campher found himself a shady spot outside, with the laborers: through the window I could see him comfortably squatting down with them to answer their excited questions about the Cape while inside, Barend and I discussed the journey—the price our wares had fetched; the two new guns; the schoolmaster.

  “Why are you so eager for your girls to have an education? You want to prepare them for town life or what?”

  “It’s Cecilia,” I said. “And they’re girls, after all. They cannot grow up wild like boys.”

  He looked at me from under his dark eyebrows, a look both quizzical and mocking. “Ja!” he said at last. “I suppose you know more about girls than boys, don’t you?”

  “I won’t exchange my girls for anything in the world.”

  “I’m sure you won’t. Still, it would be a pity if Houd-den-Bek had to fall into strange hands one day for lack of an heir.”

  Deliberately ignoring the remark I changed the subject: “Everything all right here while I was away?”

  “Yes. I went over to Houd-den-Bek every other day. Galant seems to have settled down at last. Perhaps he’s finally got over his cheekiness.”

  “After New Year the world will be a much better place for all of us,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  I told him about the meeting. Halfway through Abel came in and interrupted us to discuss something about a hoe with Barend. “I’ll be there just now,” Barend told him brusquely. Abel hovered impatiently in the background while I resumed my account; then we went outside together and Barend’s share of the load was taken from the wagon. Soon afterwards we were on our way again—without Moses, who’d stayed behind with his tobacco and his small keg of brandy and the new trousers I’d given him: he was to take the short cut back to Pa’s grazing place in the mountains.

  A new reluctance grew inside me, not so much at the prospect of being home again as at the memory of the very first time I’d been to Cape Town with Pa, when everybody had been so excited about the uprising of the slaves at Koeberg; and when, upon our arrival, Pa had summoned all the slaves at Lagenvlei and had them flogged by way of warning. In his time I imagine that was all the deterrent that had been necessary. But today? I tried my best to shake off the morbid mood. After all, there was new hope. And slowly, as we drew nearer—past Frans du Toit’s farm and then eastward to Houd-den-Bek—my mind began to clear. At last the farm was there, ahead of me in the depression between the two ranges of mountains: the farm with its stone-walls and whitewashed home and outbuildings, the kraals, the cluster of trees. In spite of myself a sense of pride returned: almost all of this was my own handiwork. The dilapidated cottage in which Hester had first lived had been changed into a sturdy white homestead with a pitched, thatched roof. There was the elongated dark-blue sheet of water where the marsh had been dammed. The paved irrigation furrows. The orchards; the peach-trees in front of the house; the bean-fields; the deep green pumpkin patch; the tobacco; the expanse of wheatlands already turning yellow. There was a deeply reassuring stability about it all. It had been done well, and solidly, surely. We were no temporary sojourners, all this was here to last and endure. Perhaps the uncertainty was really subsiding now. One had forfeited much; but one had also learned, and become matured. Soon, when I cracked the great whip after dropping off Campher at D’Alree’s place, leaving only Rooy and me on the wagon, I would see the children running out to meet me, bright dresses swirling, hair streaming in the wind, shrill voices shrieking: “Papa! Papa! Papa!” My farm; my home; my children.

  Indeed, we would prevail.

  The Lord was sure to exterminate our enemies ahead of us.

  And tonight, after Pamela had washed our feet and cleared away the dishes, we would gather round the table for prayers, the slaves on the dung-floor near the kitchen door; and I would abandon myself to the drone of my own voice as I read in restrained exultation:

  Now also many nations are gathered against thee, that say, Let her be defiled, and let our eye look upon Zion.

  But they know not the thoughts of the Lord, neither understand they his counsel: for he shall gather them as the sheaves into the floor.

  Arise and thresh, O daughter of Zion: for I will make thinehorn iron, and I will make thy hoofs brass: and thou shall beat in pieces many people: and I will consecrate their gain unto the Lord, and their substance unto the Lord of the whole earth.

  Ma-Rose

  It was turning into a dry year, and windy. Some days the wind was swirling and gusty, and unruly in a woman’s skirts; but mostly it blew steadily, evenly, for days on end, as if driven by a great hand sweeping everything out of its way and bending down the wheat under its weight, making one wish it was threshing time. For it was a real threshing wind from the west, ready to take away all the chaff and straw and leave only the rich grain behind.

  On the surface the Bokkeveld farms had a peaceful look about them that summer. Galant’s running off to the Cape and his return in the melting snow seemed to have cleared a stormy sky. And now the days were still and blue, the swallows had returned, the
sun came up and trailed across, and went down, and rose again; the wheat was filling out and turning a deep yellow, scorched brown in places from too much sun, yet promising the best harvest in years.

  Only the wind brought a feeling of restlessness to what otherwise would have been peaceful. And another wind was rising too. One couldn’t see it, or feel it in your face; but I recognized it nonetheless. The first I knew of it openly was the day Galant came to discuss it with me. For I might be living apart from the rest, but all the world came past my hut, and there was nothing I didn’t know. Many evenings Galant would come by, and the others from Houd-den-Bek or from old D’Alree’s place; even Barend’s slaves would look me up—the likeable, irresponsible Abel, ever ready for music, or a swig, or a joke; and the meek young Goliath; and that squirming toad, Klaas—and even men from more distant places: Slinger sporting an ostrich feather in his floppy hat, and old Moses with his watery eyes, and the whining old Adonis from Jan du Plessis’s farm. Each with his own story to tell: and I listened to them all, for I was old and what they wouldn’t dare tell anybody else they confided to me, and why shouldn’t they? I was mother to them all.