The Covenant

by James A. Michener

  ‘I will go to him privately this time,’ he told his young men, ‘and invite him like a gentleman to join with us.’

  ‘What can you offer him in return?’ someone asked.

  ‘Membership in the British Empire,’ Rhodes said without hesitating. ‘What more could a ruler of a petty state want?’

  Before any of the young men could point out that many nations about the world wanted a good deal more, Rhodes continued: ‘I will see President Kruger next week, and we will talk like two grown-up men. Frank, you will come with me, so make sure you learn all there is to know about him.’ During the next days Saltwood sought out anyone in Kimberley with knowledge of the titanic man with whom Cecil Rhodes was about to grapple. The diamond magnate had met the Boer leader before, in his capacity as a Cape politician; this time he would go unofficially as a private citizen, with his eye not on local affairs but on world empire.

  ‘First of all,’ one of the young gentlemen told Saltwood, ‘he’s known as Oom Paul, Uncle Paul. He’s twenty-eight years older than Mr. Rhodes and will demand due respect. He’s very vain, you know.’

  ‘And ugly as sin,’ another said. ‘His face is all crags without the grandeur of mountains. His nose is marked with bumps, and his eyes are hooded. He stands leaning backward, with his great belly projecting forward. But because of his height … He’s much taller than Mr. Rhodes and will treat him like a little boy.’

  The first instructor resumed: ‘He was in the Great Trek, you know. Killed some of Mzilikazi’s warriors. Extraordinary strength. Extraordinary bravery. He’s fought in all the wars.’

  ‘But what you must remember, in all his life he’s had only three months of schooling. He boasts, “Only book I ever read was the Bible, but since that contains all knowledge worth knowing, it’s enough.” ’

  ‘Do not,’ the first man warned, ‘react in any way if he mentions the earth.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Frank said, seeking to build up his portrait of the Boer leader.

  ‘Oom Paul believes the earth is flat. The Bible says so. And if he finds that either you or Mr. Rhodes holds it to be round, he’ll stomp out of the room. He’s also convinced that the Boers have been given their republics by God Himself, so Mr. Rhodes will be forced to prove that joining our empire is what God proposed, not Mr. Rhodes.’

  ‘The one thing in your advantage, Frank, is that even though Kruger hates colonial Englishmen, he despises Uitlanders. Calls them the atheistic rabble stealing his land. He sees the English miners, Australians and Americans as impious and immoral, and he’s not going to concede them anything. But if Mr. Rhodes can insinuate that he feels the same way about the Uitlanders …’

  ‘It must be done with tact,’ the oldest of the gentlemen warned. ‘Oom Paul is beloved by his Boers. He’s a dictator, because he knows he has total support, no matter what he does. He’ll be imperious, objectionable, insulting and infuriating. But consistently he outsmarts the Uitlanders sent to deal with him. He’s a brilliant manipulator. You are not meeting an ordinary man.’

  One of the younger men added, ‘And remember, the world is flat.’

  Frank went to sleep that Thursday night with three adjectives reverberating: ‘Stubborn, opinionated, God-driven,’ and he concluded that in contesting with Oom Paul, Mr. Rhodes might be in for a difficult tussle, but then the adjectives that depicted Mr. Rhodes began echoing: ‘Relentless, self-assured, empire-driven,’ and he began to wonder if perhaps it might be President Kruger who would need help. Before he fell asleep he recalled the description of Kruger’s appearance: ‘Ugly as sin,’ and he reflected that spiritually Mr. Rhodes might be described with those same words.

  Late on a Friday afternoon they arrived in Pretoria in Mr. Rhodes’ private coach, and they retired early so as to be up fresh and ready for their important meeting; Frank observed that Mr. Rhodes took special care with his shaving, as if he were seeing a princess, and adjusted his tie and high-collared coat so as to make the best appearance. In a carriage they rode through this extremely Boer town until, on a handsome street, they came upon an impretentious cottage, somewhat Oriental in style, marked by a wide stoep on which stood a comfortable armchair. In it, so that all Pretoria could see him consulting with his people, sat Oom Paul himself, a hulking giant of a man, shoulders hunched forward, belly out, legs spread wide, his hooded eyes inscrutable, his beard framing his massive face. He was holding court for whoever chanced to pass by.

  Rhodes stopped the carriage a respectful distance from the cottage. ‘He’s a difficult man, Frank. You go and prepare the way. Be courteous.’

  When Frank approached the stoep he was astounded at how massive Kruger was and how ugly; he seemed a cartoonist’s caricature of an illiterate Boer farmer, but when Frank fell in line and had a chance to witness how Kruger handled his complaining burghers, it was obvious that here was a man of tremendous animal magnetism and resolute force.

  ‘What brings you?’ the president asked abruptly.

  ‘Mr. Cecil Rhodes is waiting in the carriage. He asks permission to have words with you, sir.’

  Without even looking in the direction of the carriage, Kruger grumbled, ‘This is Nachtmaal.’

  ‘I was not aware of that, sir.’

  ‘My burghers are. For years they’ve known they can talk with me at Nachtmaal. Schalk Wessels here has come a hundred and ten miles, haven’t you, Schalk?’

  When the man nodded, Kruger said, ‘This day is sacred to the burghers. I might have a few free minutes on Monday.’

  ‘On Monday, Mr. Rhodes has other appointments. Can’t he possibly see you today? Or tomorrow, perhaps?’

  President Kruger rose from his chair, demonstrating the great dignity he could command when necessary, and in a gracious voice explained: ‘Today is Nachtmaal Saturday. It’s reserved for the burghers. Tomorrow is Sabbath. It’s reserved for the Lord. No matter how important Mr. Rhodes’ problems, they can wait till Monday, and so can he.’

  Without thinking, Frank replied in words which imitated Kruger’s urbanity: ‘Mr. Rhodes waits for no man.’ Turning smartly on his heel, he left the stoep.

  But by the time he reached the waiting carriage, he was alarmed by what he had done and asked Mr. Rhodes, ‘Shall I return and apologize?’

  ‘Never! You behaved with spirit. I meant to give that old devil a chance, but I refuse to crawl on my knees. We shall proceed without him.’

  Back in his offices, Mr. Rhodes referred so frequently to ‘that obstinate, Bible-quoting Boer’ that Frank speculated on what his response to his humiliation might be. Then he discovered that Mr. Rhodes was making many cautious inquiries on various aspects of Boer strength, for as he told his young gentlemen, ‘A man must never move until he can assess the full power of his opponent.’

  ‘Are you spying out the enemy?’ one of the young fellows asked.

  ‘I have no enemies,’ Rhodes snapped. ‘Only opponents. The day after we settle our differences we become mutual friends.’ And Frank recollected a dozen instances in which this rule had prevailed. For three years Rhodes had fought Barney Barnato, and when the fight was settled, had welcomed him to his board of directors. Now Rhodes promised: ‘The morning after President Kruger agrees to our plans, I will offer myself as his assistant in governing our joint territories.’

  Suddenly, one morning, he wheeled about and fixed Saltwood with his watery eyes, which could become so fiery when he wished. ‘Zimbabwe! Frank, I’ve always wanted to know who built it. I’m convinced in my own mind it must have been the Queen of Sheba, as the Bible indicates. What I want you to do is organize an expedition to search out the place and report to me what you find. Because we must nail down the truth before some German adventurer proves that the stone castles were built by Kaffirs. Hideous thought.’

  Since Frank could not decipher what Mr. Rhodes was up to, he asked, ‘What has this to do with your plans?’

  ‘There’s a man living far east of here, next to the farm they call Vrymeer. They say he went
to Zimbabwe as a boy. Saw the turrets close up. I want you to interrogate that man, check his truthfulness …’ Rhodes hesitated, then added, ‘Take a measure of him.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Paulus de Groot.’

  Frank did not allow his countenance to change, but like a bomb lighting up the night, Mr. Rhodes’ intentions became clear. ‘I’ll go see General de Groot. Sound him out.’

  Paulus de Groot was that giant of a man, six feet five, with stooped shoulders and massive red head, who had led one of the charges at Majuba in 1881 when the Boers defeated the best troops in the British Empire. He was a man who could enlist the support of other men; he was also without vanity, for when the great battles ended he returned to his farm, where he was reported to be living in stark simplicity. The Boer rulers in Pretoria begged him to join the government, but he told them, ‘Riding a horse up a hill doesn’t make a man sagacious.’ And he remained a farmer.

  What Mr. Rhodes wanted to know was whether General de Groot had the capacity and the fire to resist an English attempt at taking over the Boer republics. ‘He’s said to be past sixty, much too old to be leading troops. But he’s also said to be a very active man, good with horses and guns. Find out about him.’

  ‘Then you’re not interested in Zimbabwe? Not really?’

  Mr. Rhodes changed his attitude completely. Grasping Saltwood by the shoulder, he said quietly, ‘Frank, I’m interested in everything. I want to pursue everything. You’re off to Zimbabwe in the morning. By way of Vrymeer.’

  It was this variety of interests which almost destroyed the pleasant relationship between Mr. Rhodes and Frank, because that night a cable from London reached South Africa, informing Rhodes that a business friend of some importance was sending his niece on vacation to Cape Town and using her to deliver a packet of documents that he wanted Rhodes to study. Someone must meet the young woman, Maud Turner, not only to receive the documents, but also to see that she was properly ensconced.

  No one knew anything about Miss Turner except that her uncle was powerful, but there was a strong suspicion that she must be rather unattractive, else why would her uncle be sending her to Cape Town? Through the years English families had developed the pleasant and prudent habit of managing by one device or another to ship their unmarriageable females either to India or to Australia, on the principle that ‘if she can’t get married out where the competition is so thin, she’ll never make it.’ This trickle of gaunt, unlovely creatures was regularly dispatched to the far colonies in hopes that most would never return, or at least, not till they had sons of a proper age for Eton or Harrow.

  ‘You must attend her, Frank,’ Rhodes said peremptorily.

  ‘But I’m heading for Zimbabwe.’

  ‘It can wait. It’s been waiting three thousand years.’

  So Frank Saltwood, now in his thirties, clean and trim, with the affectations of an Oxford education, boarded the smoky train at Kimberley and headed south over the empty spaces of the Great Karroo.

  He realized from the start that this could be a much more dangerous mission than going north to Zimbabwe, because of the inviolate rule that governed Mr. Rhodes’ young gentlemen: once a man displayed serious interest in a young woman, he was quarantined from decisions of importance, and if he actually married her, he could be fired that day. Indeed, Frank wondered if Mr. Rhodes’ choice of him to attend Miss Turner had not been some kind of signal that his days in diamonds and gold were nearing an end. Because he enjoyed his work and wanted to continue it, he was determined to handle the young lady with aloofness, accept her documents, sign her into the Mount Nelson, and hurry back to Kimberley and his more important work. He certainly would not risk employment he’d liked for so many years by becoming entangled with a woman.

  He had not counted on the duplicity of his Salisbury cousin, Sir Victor Saltwood, who had ascertained that young Frank was still without a wife or prospects of any. It was he who had gone to Maud Turner’s uncle, proposing that his charming, gifted niece, twenty-three years old, be dispatched to Cape Town with papers for Cecil Rhodes, and it was he who drafted the cable which Rhodes received. Families of importance saw to it that their young men and women met marriageable people of their own kind, and if girls had to ship all the way to Australia or Cape Town, so be it. Sir Victor could not have devised that Frank himself should meet the ship, but he certainly expected him to meet Miss Turner sooner rather than later.

  He had a right to expect favorable results, for he had sent one of the finest young women of the Salisbury district, member of a strong family, heiress to a modest fortune, and recipient of one of the most practical educations possible: she had been allowed to listen to the lively conversation of her elders, who were interested in politics, morals, business and empire. She was reasonably pretty, unreasonably clever with her tongue, and a person to whom an adventure like Cape Town was irresistibly attractive as something to do before settling down in Salisbury.

  She half suspected that Sir Victor and her uncle were conspiring in some way to get her to meet this or that young man; they were always conspiring about bills in Parliament or reforms in the church, but this did not mean that she had to accede to their rough-and-ready stratagems. She would deliver the papers, go on an elephant hunt, and return to England to marry whom she pleased. In performing these duties she would see as much of South Africa as possible, and have a rattling good time doing so.

  At the end of the voyage out she could have married any one of three quite ordinary men who had courted her, and she felt confident that on the voyage home she could do better, so she was in no hurry to accept whomever it was that her uncle had selected for her, but when she saw on the dock awaiting her a young man of obvious charm and vitality, she was interested.

  ‘Halloo!’ she cried in a very unladylike shout. ‘Are you Mr. Rhodes’ emissary?’

  ‘I am. Saltwood’s the name.’

  ‘Meet me over there, Saltwood,’ and without assistance from the pursers she found the gangway and was one of the first off the ship.

  Frank, watching her come skipping down the sloping stairs, saw at once what a remarkable young woman she was. ‘She seemed all of a piece,’ he wrote to his mother. ‘From her buttoned shoes to the sway of her skirt, from the broad cloth belt about her waist to the perfection of her blouse, she was a harmony, but what I liked most was the way she coiled her hair. No man could have deciphered just how she did it, all auburn and glowing in the sunlight.’

  Still, he might have resisted her allure had it not been for the added seductiveness of the Mount Nelson Hotel. This fine edifice stood at the edge of the gardens laid out by Jan van Riebeeck two hundred and forty years before. It was the glory of Cape Town, a spacious inn with lovely grounds, ornate hallways, excellent kitchens and muted servants who seemed to be Malay or Coloured. A chilled Trianon wine from the Van Doorn vineyards, a small helping of a spicy bobotie, followed by roast duiker and an orange soufflé at the Mount Nelson might addle any young man’s good judgment, but when a lively young woman like Maud Turner sat sharing it and throwing her witty barbs, it became a Lucullan feast. He telegraphed Mr. Rhodes: BUSINESS COMPLICATIONS NECESSITATE THREE MORE DAYS.

  During these three days he was captivated by the levels of interest and understanding she displayed, and he found that she was honestly ‘all of a piece,’ as he had written, a beautifully organized person whose individuality matched her intelligence. In curious ways she resembled Mr. Rhodes, for absolutely everything interested her: ‘How will the blacks ever learn if there aren’t enough schools for them?’ She developed a special affinity for the Cape Afrikaners and sought them out. ‘How could you, Frank, have lived here so long and known so few of them? They’re far more interesting than your English friends … What, for heaven’s sake, have you been doing all this time?’

  “Working with Mr. Rhodes.’

  ‘What I mean, Saltwood. The English in South Africa. Another decade, you’ll have been here a century, and what have you ach
ieved? You’ve driven the Boers to set up their own republics. And the ones left behind here in the Cape are talking about an Afrikaner Bond, or something. What have you English got to show?’

  Frank laughed. ‘My dear Maud, almost everything you’ve seen has been the result of English effort. The port you entered. The railroad you took to Stellenbosch. The passes over the mountains. The schools, the hospitals, the free press. All English-inspired.’

  ‘It may be as you say,’ she conceded, inwardly proud of the accomplishments he kept rattling off. ‘But the Afrikaners I met at the coffeehouse don’t seem to recognize any of it.’

  ‘Nor did they ever recognize what Hilary was trying to do.’

  ‘Your granduncle, was it? The missionary with the …’

  ‘Black woman?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to say it that way, Frank.’

  ‘I understand. But don’t be surprised if you live to believe that what Hilary tried to do was right. That he saw the salvation of this land.’

  ‘Do you think of this as your land? The way the Boers say they do?’

  ‘I was born here. I’ve made it my home, even if your Afrikaner friends won’t acknowledge my joint ownership. Just because they were here first doesn’t mean that God gave them the land in some kind of deal. That’s what the Boers up north preach, but mark my words, the English progress they despise will catch up with them. Perhaps very soon.’

  ‘You’re getting too serious, Frank Saltwood. Tell me about elephant hunting. Is it dangerous?’

  She really did want to go on an elephant hunt, and if that proved impractical, a lion would do. When he informed her that both animals had quit these parts generations ago, she said simply, ‘Then let’s go after them. I have a small allowance, but I think it might suffice.’

  When he disappointed her by saying that he could not remove himself from Kimberley, she said, ‘Good, I’ve always wanted to see how they dig for diamonds. Silly stones—wouldn’t want one myself.’

  He pointed out that it would be quite improper for her to journey to Kimberley either with him or by herself, but she snapped, ‘Nonsense! I carry with me letters to the most respectable families on the diamond fields.’ And she organized the delivery of her two trunks to the railway and the purchase of her sleeping compartment to Kimberley. Frank was free to tag along, if he so wished.