by Peter Rimmer
"What's going on here?" said Nathanial missing the brief whiff of sarcasm.
"Tinus thinks the natives are going to revolt."
"Does he now? How quite ridiculous. They are delighted we have come to protect them and bring them the word of Jesus Christ. Absolutely delighted. They shall be saved, I tell them. They shall be saved. Remember that Emily."
"I'll try Nat…When your horse is all tucked in you can go up to the house whilst I look for Seb." The idea of Nat looking for himself was not part of his image. He liked his flock to come to him, as supplicants; it made him feel he represented God in a better light.
Walking away on her small feet to the back gate that led into the lands she wondered how it was possible for one set of parents to have such different children. Keeping the smile to herself she noticed Harry scooting away before he was cornered by his uncle for a lecture on God and the bad habits of small boys. It was going to be a difficult afternoon and evening, she sighed to herself. As she turned through the back gate she saw her son disappear into the trees with his new shotgun. As he did so he turned and waved. Then she began the walk beside the straight line of maize that stretched green and tall acre after acre, the perfect sight for sore eyes. Idly she wondered how long Harry would stay in the bush.
Seb saw his pregnant wife from a distance and stopped chopping at the thick tree root and put down his axe. His back ached but he was happy. The thirty-acre crop of corn was better than expected especially where the anthills had been flattened and spread as far as possible from the great nests built by billions of ants over hundreds of years, the soil rich in their excretion. There was one good cob from every hole, sometimes two or three plants where more kernels had germinated. And he had an idea that would make the corn far more valuable than sending it to the flour mill in Salisbury for turning into mealie-meal, the staple food of the blacks. Seb waved to his wife and walked to meet her. Farming for Sebastian was highly rewarding; the result was tangible; he could place his hand on the fruit of his hard work and it made all the years of pain worthwhile.
Emily had stopped when Seb put down the axe. The unborn baby kicked hard. Putting both hands on her belly she sat on an old tree stump that had been left to mark one hundred yards of maize and calmed the baby. She was twenty-five and as she looked back to making love with Seb beneath the great oak tree it seemed the girl of sixteen had nothing to do with the pregnant mother sitting on a tree stump beneath the African sky. Above, the clouds were white and patched evenly in the powder blue sky. A dove was calling across the land of maize from the top branch of a msasa tree, calling to its lover, the call saying to Emily 'how's father? How's father?' time after time. It was their joke, hers and Seb's and when the bird first called in the morning Seb would answer 'father's fine today' and they would laugh as children they no longer were. A powerful man, richly tanned by the African sun, thinness and pony tail long gone, the corn-coloured hair bleached white by the same sun that had turned his face to the colour of mahogany, the clear blue eyes the only feature recognisable from his youth. All her frustration evaporated as he strode down the lines of green maize grinning from ear to ear.
"He kicked," she called and waited on her tree stump. He kissed her gently having taken off her broad-brimmed hat.
"What are you doing here, Em? The sun's terribly hot. Trouble?" Anything out of context in Seb's life usually meant trouble and with the debacle of the Jamesons’ raid into the Transvaal so new he was instantly on his guard: Dr Jim had surrendered to a Boer commando outside Johannesburg ten weeks earlier along with the police and military sent from Rhodesia. Chamberlain in England was said to be furious with Dr Jameson and Cecil Rhodes. Jameson and the leaders of the abortive raid were being sent to England for trial. Rhodes denied any connivance. The rest was murky and laced with rumours. The relations between the Boers and the British had reached close to the point of war.
"Trouble in a way but not the sort you are thinking about," said Emily. "Tinus's great revolution has not started and Chamberlain's trying to calm the Boers. Your brother is here. You’d better warn Greg. The Reverend righteousness is high on his horse. Harry's gone off with his new gun and I'll take a bet our daughter has joined him."
"Bess?"
"No Bess. Poor Bess has been left alone with the children. God, your brother tells me, is standing guard."
"It's Nat that needs some sense knocked into him, not Greg. You go on back to the house and I'll join you later."
"Don't leave us alone for too long. He considers me a fallen woman. The looks of disapproval are almost a physical slap in the face."
For as long as Seb could remember Nat had never been wrong because Nat was on the side of the Lord. Calling up God as his defence had begun soon after the seven-year-old Nat's first Sunday school. From that moment or according to James Brigandshaw, Seb's second eldest brother after Arthur, Nat had found his vocation. James, the soldier in the family said brother Nat had so indoctrinated himself that he actually believed that every word in the New and Old Testaments was the gospel truth. The man had the ability to turn the Bible to his advantage every time he found himself in an argument. There was always a quotation to squash any rebellion. Simply, Nat on behalf of God, was right. The only thing the three brothers ever agreed upon was that Nathanial was an insufferable boor and one day God would forsake him. To Nat the brotherly animosity was another living proof of his path to God. They were his cross to bear.
As Seb walked back to the farmhouse two hours later he could find no pleasure in the thought of his brother's visit. To make matters worse Fran was not in Fort Salisbury as the military situation was too volatile for her to travel. Five good stiff gins would probably serve his purpose and working on the principle that safety lay in numbers they had all agreed to meet the Reverend in Seb's house for sundowners. At the last moment Seb's father-in-law conveniently pleaded sunstroke and Henry Manderville went to bed. In the rondavel that made up the lounge they sat and looked at each other. Harry was still in the bush having released his sister to the pangs of hunger. Alison sat protected by her children, the baby fast asleep in its crib by her side. Seb suspected Fran of early drinking and Gregory had his mouth clamped shut. Tinus as usual before dusk was patrolling their northern river perimeter on horseback. Emily sat busily darning socks. Throughout the palpable silence the Reverend poured his monologue: he was used to giving sermons where nobody answered back.
With Tinus and Harry still not home Emily lit the kerosene lamp and Seb poured the drinks and for the first time in months Gregory Shaw failed to say his drink tasted good.
They were all waiting for Fran and Greg to be castigated when Tinus came into the room looking grim.
"Get your rifles," he said. "Twelve people have crossed the river. Maybe more. Fresh spoor and they came from the north."
"Looking for jobs," said the Reverend.
"Not in that quantity. Is your wife alone on the mission?"
"Of course."
"Then you are a damn fool."
"Blasphemy I will not allow."
"You'll allow a lot more than blasphemy if they kill your wife and children. Don't you see it Reverend. Jameson, the destroyer of Lobengula has been destroyed himself. The Matabele want revenge and the Shona will be told to help. This is Africa not the East End of London."
"They love me on the mission."
"Don't you believe it. They hate your guts. And mine. We've stolen their country don't you remember. And please, none of that nonsense about civilisation and Christianity."
Harry looked through the window and saw his uncle on his knees his hands clasped together in supplication: he was shouting at the ceiling and a fine mist of termite dust was falling in the room caught like a sunbeam by the white light of the kerosene lamp. Harry felt the giggle come up from his belly. Madge saw him through the windows and pulled a face, safe in the knowledge that Uncle Nat's eyes were shut tight and would stay shut tight until the tirade had finished being sent up into the rafters. The rest o
f the family and friends were trying not to look at each other and then the baby woke up in the crib and added her voice to the prayer. Aunty Alison tried to calm the baby to no avail and in the uproar Harry let out his silent giggle. Uncle Tinus got up in his agitation and knocked over the small table spilling his glass onto the floor and Harry's giggle began to build to hysterics. Uncle Tinus then told the Reverend on his knees to shut up to no avail and Harry had to stop laughing because his belly was hurting. Then by mistake in his excitement he dropped his .410 shotgun on its butt and the gun went off with a shattering noise as Harry had forgotten to put back the hammer after sighting a bird. The shot went up in the air much to Harry's relief. Expecting his father to come running through the door to find him dead or give him a cuff round the ear he was surprised to see the reaction in the room. The Reverend shut his trap and leapt to his feet and the baby stopped crying and for a terrible moment Harry thought he had killed the little thing. Uncle Gregory fell flat on his face on the floor pulling Aunty Fran with him. Uncle Tinus leapt for his gun which was leaning against the wall next to the table with the food and in his hurry knocked everything on the floor. Sister Madge who had seen what had happened was laughing with tears pouring down her face which didn't help Harry's mother who thought Madge was crying. Only then did Harry find himself looking into the clear blue eyes of his father with the thin pane of glass his only protection. With the gun on the floor Harry decided to make a run for it back into the bush and ran full speed into the arms of his grandfather. Five minutes later Harry was sent to bed without any food and thought it all unfair. By the time he was allowed out into the calm of the morning his Uncle Nat had gone on his way and Harry was quite happy at the way it had all turned out. Going back to the window he looked but there was no sign of his gun.
A week later, on the 24th March, the Matabele went on the rampage slaughtering isolated policemen and families scattered across mines and farms in Matabeleland. Zwide was furious. The attack had been planned for the 29th, the night of the Big Dance when the moon was full. At first the reports were satisfactory and the whites that had not been slaughtered fled into Bulawayo. Soon the regiments would attack Bulawayo and Zwide would be king. The only blight on his euphoria was the Shona: the cowards had not joined the uprising.
On the 25th March, Frederick Selous, the greatest hunter of them all rode into Bulawayo to organise the defence. He had brought the Pioneer Column including Henry Manderville and Gregory Shaw to safety at Fort Salisbury in '90 and he was not going to lose the country in '96. Leading horsemen armed with Martini-Henry rifles, most of whom had handled guns in the bush for years, he led the counter attack against the Matabele regiments. The mounted cavalry were outnumbered fifteen to one but were mobile and their shooting was deadly accurate. They also had unlimited ammunition. By the time Cecil Rhodes came in with a relief column from Salisbury, the Matabele had lost the initiative.
With the Charter Company shares plunging in London with the expectation of a costly war, Rhodes unarmed and alone met the indunas in a cave in the Matopos mountains that overlooked Bulawayo. Zwide was not among them. Once again he had gone north and while the end of the rebellion was being negotiated he sat in the cave with the bones of Lobengula and the remnants of the black oxide. Only on the second day of his exile did he begin to move the gold and ivory out of the cave. Alone, it was to take him weeks to move the treasure to its new hiding place. The guns, given out to the regiments for the rebellion were surrendered to the whites as part of the amnesty. The Kingdom of Matabeleland had ceased to exist except in Zwide's bitter heart. There would be another time. Leaving his headdress and leopard skin with the treasure he went back to Bulawayo and found himself a job chopping meat in a butcher's shop.
By the time Zwide was cutting up his first white man's cow the witch was ready. Everything had gone according to plan: the last of Lobengula's regiments had been defeated, Jameson was still in England facing trial and Rhodes himself had gone to Bulawayo with a relief column. The land of the Shona was ready for the war of liberation. The witch, a wrinkled old hag to those who chose to see her, smiled to herself: never once had they trusted the Matabele emissaries.
The witch had collected the mushrooms over many years, dried them and ground them to powder. The orange-topped mushroom with the white underbelly was rare and precious, used only once in each generation to retain its power of mystery. Smoked from clay pipes the powered mushrooms would stop the rust of the assegai and turn the white man's bullets to water: across Mashonaland the witch doctors were preparing their medicine for the Chimerenga.
When the moon was full the Shona would burst out of their caves and hiding places to kill every white man, woman and child that had stolen their land. The Kingdom of Monomotapa was to rise again, the power of witch and chief once more unquestioned. The new God of the white man would be destroyed. Once again the people would hunt the sweet rivers and plains of their forefathers and there would be peace among men. The yoke of foreign domination would be gone forever.
Satisfied with her preparations, the witch went deep into the cave to feed her leopard. When alone with the satisfied animal she prayed to her ancestors to intercede with God to give them deliverance, the most ancient cry of man.
Tatenda had learned to say nothing. Once he had told Gumbo, the Chief's son, about the great ships in Table Bay with guns bigger than a buffalo. But when he talked about the telegraph that sent messages from Cape Town to Fort Salisbury as quickly as they spoke, Gumbo lost interest in a story that was obviously so stupid. The noise of Cape Town still rattled in Tatenda's ears, a mocking echo. He thought of the steam trains pouring black smoke across the veld, the great snake clattering onwards and onwards along the white man's rails. He thought of the pictures they had shown him of London, the capital of the world, of skyscrapers in New York across an ocean wider than the veld and great boats the mighty Zambezi could never float. There were pictures of the Queen and miles of soldiers all with guns and he wanted to tell his people but he feared the witch and the voices from the trees. He feared the leopard would tear him limb from limb and he watched them go when the moon was full and clutching his puny gun he did what he was told and when he reached the Mazoe River he crossed with the others and smoked the pipe and found the courage of a lion and they ran forward to attack the white man certain in their belief the white man's bullets would turn to water.
Right across Mashonaland the struggle had just begun, the first war of liberation.
By the end of June the trees around the stockade had been cut and cleared leaving an unobstructed field of fire. Every one hundred yards in a circle around their stockade, Gregory Shaw had driven in stakes to give their guns the range. At night they took it in turn to patrol the perimeter and listen for the rattling of the stones in the tin cans he had strung between the white painted posts. Stacks of tinder dry wood had been placed within throwing distance of twenty yards from the stockade. Each of the firing points had been tested to ensure they enfiladed with each other. There were no gaps they could see in their defence.
At the mission on the other side of Fort Salisbury, Nathanial went about God's business administering his new flock. His three children played in front of the house on the dry dirt floor among the chickens and goats. His wife treated the sick and tried to teach the children English. Nathanial knew everything was in a mess but denied the knowledge even to himself. Everything he had ever done in his life since he was seven-years-old was the will of God.
The morning Tatenda smoked his pipe none of the children came to the school. The clinic was empty of sick. The Reverend and his family were alone. Bringing them together in the improvised church that served as a classroom, he began to pray. Never once did he doubt the wisdom of God. To Nathanial each life on earth was destined for a purpose as without a purpose there could be no point to life itself.
Jeremiah Shank had built his house on the Hunyani River of stone, each block cut square and mortared into place. The square windows filled the
front of the house looking down the slope to the river and the trees had grown tall from their roots deep in the damp earth below the flowing water. Atop the two stories of the house rose a tower that was higher than the house itself. By turning the steel cogs the dome of the roof came open and showed Jeremiah the great heavens he had watched in awe from the pitching decks of ships. The vastness of the heavens fascinated the man. When the dome was wound open the telescope looked at the clear night sky, layer after layer, past the Milky Way to the universe beyond. Night after night in the sanctuary of his tower, Jeremiah looked up at the stars and his soul went out to the heavens.
On the wall behind the swivel seat of the telescope hung a naval cutlass that had been handed down to him by three generations of seamen none of whom had come to any good, all succumbing to whores and rum and all, so far as the family could remember, dead of syphilis. At twenty-eight he had stopped the rot and with the right woman he would breed a new family of Shanks who would stand tall in the corridors of power.
Jeremiah had seen his dinner companion twice since the night they had met on the Meikles Hotel veranda and still he bided his time. He had looked carefully at other prospects in the new colony and found nothing that would fit his bill. With three generations and the sustenance of his wealth the Shanks would have bred out their bad blood and replaced it with the best in England.
The old Jeremiah Shank had told him to run like hell at the first talk of rebellion back to Kimberley and the source of his wealth but the house and all it meant was more powerful. Kimberley was a grubby mining town and only the elite were allowed membership of the Kimberley club. Even Barnato with all his wealth was denied because he was a Jew. On the banks of the Hunyani, from the tower that looked out over the great plains of Mashonaland, Jeremiah saw his destiny. Only land was the mark of a dynasty, only land gave a man the true sense of power and privilege.