At the mention of Nachtmaal, Tjaart thought hungrily of that exquisite girl, but he stopped when he became aware that someone near him was sobbing. It was Minna. Death she could tolerate, but Nachtmaal carried memories too bitter to accept. Dashing from the death-room, she ran from the house and toward the hills that protected De Kraal.
‘You must find her a husband,’ the dying Ouma said. ‘I rode alone more than a hundred miles to find your father, Tjaart.’
One of the children asked, ‘Were there lions when you rode, Ouma?’
‘There were lions,’ she said.
* * *
When Theunis Nel began riding over to the Van Doorn farm after the death of Wilhelmina, it was ostensibly to report on the progress of the children, but after a third visit Jakoba took Tjaart aside: ‘When he first came I thought it was to have a good meal. You know how the Bronks scrimp on food.’
‘He eats practically nothing.’
‘Do you know why? He’s courting Minna. It’s ridiculous. Tell him to stay away.’
‘Minna!’ Tjaart sat down heavily. ‘Do you think …’
That afternoon he rode over to the school and invited Theunis Nel to dine, and the eagerness with which the little schoolmaster accepted convinced Tjaart that Jakoba had made a shrewd guess. That night both the Van Doorns scanned the teacher as he toyed with his food, and after he departed they whispered together.
‘It’s wrong, Tjaart. He’s older than you.’
‘I’m not so old.’
‘But Minna’s—’
‘I know what Minna is. She’s nearly sixteen, a woman without a man. And she’s not so well-favored that she’ll easily catch a good one now.’
These blunt truths brought tears, and Jakoba asked, ‘What can we do?’
‘We can encourage Theunis Nel.’
‘You can’t mean to marry her?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
‘But she’s a girl. He’s an old man.’
‘Any woman past fifteen is thirty years old, or forty, or fifty, or whatever is required. When Nel comes to sit with Minna, you make him welcome.’
But how to inform the schoolmaster that he was free to sit with Mejuffrouw van Doorn in the opening stages of a formal courtship? Tjaart solved the problem in what he deemed a subtle way: ‘Theunis, I’ve ridden over here to tell you that you’ve done wonders with our grandchildren. I have a daughter, you may have met her, I think. She ought to learn her letters, too, and we will pay you extra …’
‘I’m sure I could arrange some free time,’ Nel said, and he entered upon the most hectic period of his life: school all day, sick-comforting many nights, nine miles to De Kraal; instructing Minna at night, and helping everywhere on unforeseen tasks.
Sometimes Tjaart and Jakoba would peer into the kitchen, and there would be the schoolmaster, gazing raptly at Minna as she laboriously copied her alphabet. ‘I wonder if she knows?’ Tjaart asked, and Jakoba said, ‘Women always know.’
And one night after Nel had departed, so weary that he fell asleep on his horse and allowed the beast to take him back to the school, Minna told her parents, ‘I think he wants to speak with you, Father.’ But having reported this, as she had promised Theunis she would, she burst into tears. ‘But I’m in love with Ryk Naudé. I always will be.’
‘Minna,’ her mother said sternly, ‘he’s gone.’
‘But I can’t marry that schoolmaster.’
Jakoba shook her and said, ‘When a woman’s past fifteen she must make the best bargain.’
‘You want me to marry him?’
‘You heard what Nel said. “The generations of man are but as the winnowing of wheat.” ’
‘I still don’t know what that means,’ Tjaart protested.
‘It means a woman must do what she has to,’ Jakoba said.
Two nights later Theunis Nel, wearing the best clothes he could command, appeared in the kitchen, and when Minna spread her papers, he brushed them aside: ‘Tonight I speak with you, Mijnheer van Doorn.’
‘Yes?’ Tjaart said.
‘Mijnheer van Doorn’—the schoolmaster spoke as if he were sixteen and Tjaart seventy—‘I have the great honor of asking whether I might have the hand of your daughter Minna …’
When Minna heard these fateful words and saw the pitiful man that spoke them she might have broken into a sob had not her mother anticipated such a scene and grabbed her daughter’s wrist furiously, as if to say, You cannot.
‘I am older,’ Nel continued, ‘and have no farm …’
‘But you’re a good man,’ Jakoba said, and she pushed her daughter forward.
‘Theunis,’ Tjaart said, ‘we welcome you into our family.’
‘Oh!’ the schoolmaster gasped. Recovering his composure, he said, ‘Can we all ride to Graaff-Reinet for the wedding?’
‘Not in these troubled times,’ Tjaart said. ‘But you can start the marriage, and whenever a dominee comes this way …’
‘I could not,’ the devout little man protested, unable to imagine living with a woman before vows had been solemnized. ‘I must pray on this.’
‘Go ahead,’ Tjaart said, eager to have his daughter married. ‘But I’ve noticed that whenever men pray on this subject, the answer’s always yes. Do you want Minna to ride with you to Bronk’s?’
‘I must pray.’
It was Minna who answered that particular prayer. ‘You heard what Wilhelmina did when she married Lodevicus. She rode one hundred miles. The school’s nine miles. I’m riding with you.’ Tjaart van Doorn had found a son-in-law.
In December 1834 it seemed as if all of Tjaart’s uncertainties were laid to rest. Theunis and Minna returned to help run the farm, and the English government began to show common sense in running the country. But almost immediately trouble resumed, for the Xhosa launched a series of forays deep into Boer country, and all commandos were summoned to Grahamstown to strengthen the English regular troops and their civilian helpers like Saltwood. ‘We’re dealing not with hundreds of Xhosa warriors,’ the commanding officer said, ‘but thousands. An invasion of our colony is under way.’
After fourteen rugged days in the saddle, Tjaart’s men were given a week’s furlough; they were farmers, not soldiers, and their first responsibility lay in ensuring the safety of their homestead and flocks. As the tired men rode back to Grahamstown, a place Tjaart had grown to love for its hospitality, Saltwood spoke seriously: ‘Piet Retief is talking about pulling out of here and emigrating north. If that good man leaves, it’s obvious to me you’ll all go. I think that’s a mistake. You and I have proved that Boers and Englishmen can live together.’
‘Your laws go against the Bible.’
‘Against the Old Bible, not the New.’
‘It’s the Old that counts.’
‘Be that as it may, if you ever decide to go north, I’d be very interested in your farm. It’s the best in this area.’
‘I’d not care to sell.’
‘Then why did you buy that new wagon?’
Tjaart reflected on this. He refused to concede that he had acquired the wagon in order to emigrate, even though his wife had been counseling this for some time. ‘I bought it because a farmer needs good tools,’ he had told his sons. But gradually he admitted that he might also have done so because there was in the air a desire for life unimpeded by English law and custom. Perhaps Jakoba had been right. Perhaps they should go north and form a new nation.
But such thoughts fled from him when he and De Groot came over the last hill to De Kraal, for from its summit they looked down on a scene of devastation: all parts of the barn that were not of stone were burned away; the wooden shed attached to the house was burned; and in the space between barn and house stood what had been the new wagon, all parts charred and shattered.
‘Great God!’ Tjaart shouted, spurring his horse to find what might have happened to his family. ‘De Groot!’ he cried from the ashes. ‘They’ve all been killed.’
But a search of
the ruins uncovered no bodies, and now Tjaart feared that his family had been taken captive. A wide-ranging search for spoor finally disclosed a trail leading to a faraway glen, and there they found Theunis Nel, the women, the children and the slaves—safe and hungry. His sons had been slain.
‘Theunis saved us,’ Jakoba said quietly when Tjaart embraced her.
‘How?’
A Coloured servant, grateful that he was still alive, replied, ‘Two guns. We fight one hour. We move back, step by step. We kill many. They go.’
Theunis had supervised the brilliant retreat which had saved the remnants of the Van Doorn family. Curiously, he had fired neither of the guns; Jakoba had used one, a Coloured shepherd the other. But it had been Theunis who had kept the group together and picked the route of their escape.
When Tjaart asked the would-be dominee, ‘How did you find the courage, Theunis?’ Nel replied, ‘I had to. Minna’s pregnant, you know.’
* * *
Six hundred miles away in Cape Town it was New Year’s Eve, and guests at the Governor’s Ball were saying it was the finest entertainment ever staged at the Cape. The ladies and gentlemen of the capital were resplendent in modish suits and gowns, but what really gave dazzling romance to the occasion were the immaculately uniformed English officers who moved through the festive crowd like valiant princes. The guests had come from every corner of the western Cape, and among them were the Trianon Van Doorns, one of the most prosperous of the older Cape Dutch families.
There were now more than twenty thousand people in the bustling town, a chaotic mix of wild irreverent seaport and nascent commercial center. Shops offering the fashions of Europe, fine blended teas and spices of Ceylon and Java, exquisite silks from China; little nooks where silversmiths crafted their precious wares; and a gentleman like Baron von Ludwig, who could advise on snuffs and tobaccos—all flourished. Comfortable hotels and clubs where the latest news from ‘home’ could be pondered at leisure stood alongside bawdy taverns with their Gentoo hostesses, stable yards, chandlers, the workshops of Malay carpenters, alleys jammed with the shacks of Coloureds and poor whites.
The gentry lived well in their fine town houses or in the gabled grandeur of their farms, devoting their energies to establishing the great Cape families of the future while debating such disparate subjects as the vexatious loss of their slaves and the newfangled bathing machine that would enable them to immerse their bodies in the Atlantic, ‘a process which guarantees medicinal benefit.’
Much of the talk on this night at all the ball centered upon the hunt, that New Year’s Day event featuring scarlet-jacketed men led by the governor himself in thunderous pursuit of the fox of the veld, the jackal. ‘Damn good job, too,’ one crusty major cried. ‘Gives one a touch of the old country, eh, what? Helps rid the farmer of his pests. Sporting show, what? Takes an English countryman to show these Boers how to make the best of this country.’ He sealed his opinion with a mighty draught of port.
Outside the Castle, this New Year’s was special too; the black and brown slaves were enjoying their first day of freedom. A huge crowd of these persons, with a horde of children, had gathered at the Lutheran church, their eye on the steeple clock that would announce the New Year. The children were whooping and yelling, impatient for the giant fireworks promised for midnight. At dawn next day they would receive their presents, as always.
At Government House the regimental band, augmented by the best town musicians, struck up another waltz, and there was an enthusiastic cheer as the garrison’s lieutenant-colonel led his pretty wife onto the floor. Henry George Wakelyn Smith was a reedy, hawk-faced young officer whose reputation pleased both his soldiers and the Cape civilians. He had conducted himself with rare bravery while serving under the Duke of Wellington in the Spanish campaign against Napoleon, and had been honored, but he insisted upon being known as plain Harry Smith, one of fourteen children from an impoverished family. And he positively loved playing at war.
If the locals were proud of Harry, they adored his wife. Everyone knew of the gallant manner in which he had won her. At the siege of Badajoz, when he led his troops in their final assault on that city, two Spanish children, one a young girl, came running from the French-held lines in tears: ‘Soldiers have killed our parents. And look! They’ve ripped the rings from our ears.’
Young Smith took one look at Juanita and declared to a friend, ‘There has never been a lovelier lady.’ And forthwith he married her, even though she was only fourteen and a Catholic. They formed one of the notable married couples in history, a marvelous, well-matched pair. He entertained the public with his bravery, she with her guitar. Years after this first sojourn at the Cape, Sir Harry would return as governor, and Juanita would be worshipped by everyone.
On this night, as he waltzed with her, Harry saw one of the governor’s aides enter the hall and with grave gestures beckon him. Graciously he deposited his lady with friends, and without betraying any excitement, walked slowly to the governor’s study.
‘The Kaffirs have broken through all our frontier lines. Grahamstown and the Boer commandos can’t hold them back. They’re destroying everything in their path. Burning and pillaging.’
Without hesitation Harry said, ‘I shall go.’
‘It will be weeks before a warship can get you there.’
‘Forget the damned navy. I’ll ride.’ Then he bowed slightly. ‘Sir, midnight is almost here. Would it not be proper for us to rejoin the ladies?’
In the ballroom, as the eleventh hour ended, a great cheer went up and the band played that exquisite song of nostalgia ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ Harry Smith, aware that he must soon be off across the continent, clasped Juanita tightly as he voiced with her the words of Robert Burns:
‘We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wandered mony a weary foot
Sin’ auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang syne.’
From outside came the explosion of fireworks and cries of delight from those who welcomed 1835.
Harry and Juanita left the dance immediately. After a brief three hours’ rest he kissed her farewell, buckled on his saber, picked up dispatches for the frontier, and rode out into the night as the citizens slept soundly in preparation for the next day’s revelry.
At dawn Smith was well east of Cape Town, and in six days he covered the six hundred miles to Grahamstown, where, without resting, he took command.
The governor, Sir Benjamin D’Urban, sorely frightened by the Xhosa invasion, arrived himself on January 14, and soon Englishmen and Boers, two thousand strong, were ready, accompanied by their three hundred Coloured militiamen. ‘We shall thrash the Kaffirs,’ Smith said, but it took seven months to make good his threat. However, with men like Tjaart van Doorn and Richard Saltwood at his side he proved tireless … and merciless. After one three-week push, he announced with satisfaction, ‘I have burned two thousand, seven hundred and sixteen huts. That’ll teach ’em.’ But in a more sober mood he estimated correctly: ‘It would take me one hundred thousand of England’s finest to crush these Xhosa.’
When finally he had forced them back to their own territory he returned to Grahamstown, where triumphal arches lauded him as the victor of the frontier, the subduer of the rebellion. ‘We shall now have peace,’ he declared.
But peace depended primarily upon the actions of Sir Benjamin, who had arrived at the Cape filled with the preachments of Dr. Simon Keer. However, service with a realist like Harry Smith, plus personal experience on the battlefront, had induced a radical change of mind. In his perceptive report on the Sixth Kaffir War he informed London that ‘this fertile and beautiful province is almost a desert, and the murders which have gone hand in hand with this work of pillage and rapine have deeply aggravated its atrocity.’ He added that in his opinion the Kaffi
rs were irreclaimable savages: ‘Merciless barbarians who have driven our seven thousand farmers to utter destitution.’
Desirous of preventing a repetition, and eager, as an honest man, to formulate a just settlement, he annexed a vast territory, erected a chain of forts, and moved every man he could to garrison the land. Friendly blacks who had not participated in the war were invited to remain where they were, and new lands would be opened up for Boer and English settlers.
It was a sensible solution and went a long way toward compensating the farmers for their grievous losses, but when the costs of the war had been totted up, Sir Benjamin stuck assegais in a large map to indicate the extent of the huge losses suffered by the white men: 100 slain, 800 farms burned, 119,000 cattle stolen, 161,000 sheep milling. Coloured suffered comparably.
When news of this prudent settlement reached London, Dr. Keer stormed Parliament: ‘The blacks were fully justified in their attempts to reclaim lands that were rightfully theirs. Three thousand of these gentle, helpless people are dead, martyrs in their struggle against the systematic injustice of the Boer and his new ally, the scum of England who live along the frontier.’
Keer won the propaganda war. The sensible peace arranged by D’Urban and Smith was annulled, with the annexed territory being returned to the blacks. D’Urban was recalled in semi-disgrace, and Harry Smith was left powerless: ‘How am I to eat up Kaffirs with a lawbook?’
Keer and his philanthropicals had a simple answer: ‘Send considerate English officials to live among our black friends and make good English citizens of them.’ They also suggested the establishment of a dozen new Golans in which missionaries could offer refuge.
It didn’t work. The frontier slipped back into tension and anxiety, and in region after region the Boers, now smitten by a vicious drought that withered their crops, met quietly, some amid the ruins of the farms, and said, ‘To hell with these Englishmen!’
The Covenant Page 72