by Wilbur Smith
He had found a copy of Jock of the Bushveld in the ship's library and was rereading the adventures of man and dog, and the nostalgic and vivid descriptions of African bush and animals with such pleasure, that his loneliness was forgotten. There was a light tap on the door of his cabin. Oh Mark, do let me hide in here for a moment. Irene Leuchars pushed quickly past him before he could protest, and she ordered, Quickly, lock the door. Her tone made him obey immediately, but when he turned back to her he had immediate misgivings.
She had been drinking. The flush of her cheeks was not all rouge, the glitter in her eyes was feverish, and when she laughed it was unnaturally high.
What's the trouble? he asked.
Oh God, darling, I have had the most dreadful time.
That Charlie Eastman is absolutely hounding me. I swear I'm terrified to go back to my cabin. I'll talk to him, Mark offered, but she stopped him quickly. Oh, don't make a scene. He's not worth it. She flicked the tail of the ostrich feather boa over her shoulder. I'll just sit here for a while, if you don't mind. Her dress was made of layers of filmy material that floated in a cloud about her as she moved, and her shoulders were bare, the bodice cut so low that her breasts bulged out, very round and smooth and white and deeply divided. Do you mind? she demanded, very aware of the direction of his eyes, and he lifted them quickly to her face. She made a move of impatience as she waited for his reply.
Her lipstick was startling crimson and glossy, so her lips had a full ripe look.
He knew he must get her out of his cabin. He knew that he was in danger. He knew how vulnerable he was, how powerful her family, and he guessed how shallow and callous she could be. But he was lonely, achingly grindingly lonely. You can stay, of course, he told her, and she drooped her eyelids and ran a sharp pink tongue across the painted lips.
Have you got a drink, darling? No, I'm sorry. Don't be, don't ever be sorry. She swayed against him and he could smell the liquor on her breath, but it was not offensive and, with her perfume, blended into a spicy fragrance. Look, she told him, holding up the silver evening bag she carried. The "It" girl with every home comfort, and she took a small silver jewelled flask from the bag. Every comfort known to man, she repeated, and parted her lips in a lewd but intensely provocative pout. Come and I'll give you a little sample. Her voice dropped to a husky whisper, and then she laughed and swirled away in a waltzing turn, humming a bar of the Blue Danube and the gossamer of her skirts floated about her thighs.
Clad in silk, her limbs gleamed in the soft light and when she dropped carelessly on to Mark's bunk, her skirts ballooned and then settled so high that he could see that the black elastic suspender-belt that held her stocking tops
was decorated with embroidered butterflies. The butterflies were spangled with brilliant colour and in exotic contrast to the pale soft skin of her inner thighs. Come, Markie, come and have a little itsy bitsy drinkie. She patted the bunk beside her and then wriggled her bottom across to make room for him. The skirts rucked up higher and exposed the wedge of her panties between her thighs. The material was so sheer that he could see the pale red-gold curls trapped and flattened by the silk.
Mark felt something crack inside him. For another moment, he tried to reckon consequence, to force himself back on to the course that was both moral and safe, but he new that in reality the decision was made when he had allowed her to stay. Come, Mark. she held the flask like bait, and the light reflected off it in silver splinters that she played into his eyes. The crack opened, and like a bursting dam, all restraint was swept aside. She recognized the moment and her eyes flared with triumph and she welcomed him to the bed with a little animal squeal, and with slim pale arms that wrapped about his neck with startling strength.
She was small and strong quick and demanding, and as skilled as Helena MacDonald, but she was different, so very different.
Her youth gave her flesh a sweetness and freshness, her skin an unblemished lustre, a luscious plasticity that was made more startling by her pale pigmentation.
When she slipped the strap off one shoulder and popped one of her glossy breasts out of the top of her bodice, offering it to Mark with a sound in her throat which was like the purr of a cat, he gasped aloud. It was white as porcelain and had the same sheen, too large for the slim fragile body but hard and firm and springy to his touch.
The nipple was tiny, set like a small jewel in the perfect coin of its aureole, so pale and delicate pink when he remembered Helena, dark and puckered and sprinkled with sparse black hair. Wait, Mark. Wait, she chuckled breathlessly, and stood quickly to drop the boa and dress to the cabin floor in one quick movement, and then to slip the sheer underwear to her ankles and kick it carelessly aside. She lifted her hands above her head and twirled slowly in front of him.
Yes? she asked. Yes, he agreed. Oh very much yes Her body was hairless and smooth except for that pale red mist that hazed the fat mound at the base of her belly, and her breasts rode high and arrogant.
She came back to him, kneeling over him. There, she whispered. There's a good boy, she crooned, but her hands were busy, unbuckling, unbuttoning, questing, finding, and then it was her turn to gasp.
Oh, Mark, you clever boy, all by yourself too! No, he laughed. I had a little help, And you are going to get a lot more, she promised, and dropped her soft, fluffy golden head over him. He thought that her mouth was as red and voracious as one of those low-tide rock-pool anemones that he had fed with such delight as a child, watching it softly enfold each tidbit, sucking it in deeply. Oh God, he croaked, for her mouth was hot, hotter and deeper than any sea animal could ever be.
Irene Leuchars carried her shoes in one hand and the feather boa hung over her other arm and trailed on the floor behind her. Her hair stood out in a soft pale halo around her head, and her eyes were underlined by dark blue smudges of sleeplessness, while the outline of her mouth was smudged and blurred, her lips puffed and inflamed. God! she whispered, I'm still tiddly, and she giggled, and lurched unsteadily to the roll of the ship. Then she pulled up the strap which had slipped from her shoulder.
Behind her in the long passageway, there was a clatter of china and she glanced back, startled. One of the whitejacketed stewards was pushing a trolley of cups and pots towards her. The morning ritual of tea and biscuits was beginning and she had not realized the hour.
Irene hurried away, turning the corner from the steward's sly and knowing grin, and she reached the door of Storm Courtney's cabin without another encounter.
She hammered on the door with the heel of one shoe, but it was a full five minutes before the door swung open and Storm looked out at her, a gown wrapped around her shoulders and her big dark eyes owlish from sleep. Irene, are you crazy? she asked. It's still night! Then she saw Irene's attire and smelled the rich perfume of her breath. Where on earth have you been? Irene pushed the door open and almost tripped over the threshold. You're drunk! accused Storm resignedly, closing the door behind her. No. Irene shook her head. It isn't liquor, it's ecstasy. Where have you been? Storm asked again. I thought you were in bed hours ago. I have flown to the moon, intoned Irene dramatically. I have run barefooted through the stars, I have soared on eagles'wings above the mountain peaks. Storm laughed, coming fully awake now, as beautiful even in deshabilIg as Irene would never be, so graceful and lovely that Irene hated her again. She savoured the moment, drawing out the pleasure of anticipation. Where have you been, you mad bad woman? Storm started to catch the spirit of the moment. Tell all! Through the gates of paradise, to the land of never-never on the continent of always -'Irene's smile became sharp, spiteful and venomous, in short, darling, Mark Anders has been bouncing me like a rubber ball! And the expression on Storm Courtney's face gave her the most intense satisfaction she had known in her life. On the third day of January, the Chamber of Mines deliberately tore up the Agreement that it had come to with your Union to maintain the status quo. It tore that agreement to a thousand pieces and flung them in the faces of the workers. Fergus MacDonald spo
ke with a controlled icy fury that carried to every corner of the great hall, and it stilled even the rowdies in the back seats who had brought their bottles in brown paper packets. Now they listened with intensity, Big Harry Fisher, sitting beside him on the dais, turned his head slowly to assess the man, peering at him under beetling eyebrows and with the bulldog folds of his face hanging mournfully. He marvelled again at how Fergus MacDonald changed when he stood to speak.
Usually he cut a nondescript figure with the small bulge of a paunch beginning to distort the spare frame, the cheap and ill-fitting suit shiny at the elbows and seat with wear, the collar of the frayed shirt damed, and grease spots on the drab necktie. His hair was thinning, starting up in wispy spikes around the neck, pushing back from the brow and with a pink bare patch in the crown. His face had that grey tone from the embedded filth of the machine shops, but when he stood under the red flag and the emblem of the Amalgamated Mineworkers Union on the raised dais facing the packed hall, he grew in stature, a physical phenomenon that was quite extraordinary. He seemed younger and there was a fierce and smouldering passion which stripped away his shoddy dress and armoured him with presence. Brothers! He raised his voice now. When the mines reopened after the Christmas recess, two thousand of our members were discharged, thrown out into the street, discarded like worn-out pairs of old boots The hall hummed, the warning sound of a beehive on a hot summer's day, but the stillness of thousands of bodies pressed closely together was more menacing than any movement. Brothers! Fergus moved his hands in a slow hypnotic movement. Brothers! Beginning at the end of this month, and for every month after that, another six hundred men will be, he paused again and then spat the official word at them, retrenched. They seemed to reel with the word, the whole concourse stunned as though by a physical blow, and the silence drew out, until a voice at the back yelled wildly, No, brothers. No! They roared then, a sound like the surf on a stormy day when it breaks upon a rocky shore.
Fergus let them roar, and he hooked his thumbs into his rumpled waistcoat and watched them, gloating in the feeling of exultation, the euphoria of power. He judged the strength of their reaction, and the moment it began to falter he raised both hands, and almost immediately the silence fell upon the hall again. Brothers! Do you know that the wages of a black man are two shillings and two pence a day? Only a black man can live on that wage! He let it sink in a moment, but not too long before he went on, asking a reasonable question, Who will take the place of two thousand of our brothers who are now out of work? Who will replace the six hundred that will join them at the end of this month, and the next and the next? Who will take your job, he was picking out individuals, pointing at them with an accuser's finger, and yours, and yours? Who will take the food from your children's mouths? He waited theatrically for an answer, cocking his head, smiling at them while his eyes smouldered. Brothers! I tell you who it will be. Two and tuppenny black kaffirs, that's who it will be!
They came upon their feet, a bench here and there crashing over backwards and their voices were a blood-roar of anger, clenched fists thrust out in fury. No, brothers. No! Their booted feet stamped in unison and they chanted, their fists punching into empty air.
Fergus MacDonald sat down abruptly and Harry Fisher congratulated him silently, squeezing his shoulder in a bear's paw before lumbering to his feet. Your executive has recommended that all members of our Union come out on general strike. I put it to you now, brothers, all those in favour, he bellowed, and his voice was drowned in a thousand others. Out, brothers! We're out! Out! Out! Fergus leaned forward in his seat and looked down the length of the trestle table.
Helena's dark head was bowed over the minute book, but she sensed his gaze and looked up. Her expression glowed with a fanatic's ecstasy, and there was open adoration in her eyes that he saw only at moments like this.
Harry Fisher had told him once, For all women, poweristhe ultimate aphrodisiac. No matter how puny in body, no matter what he looks like- power makes a man irresistible. In the thunder of thousands of voices, the pounding feet and the heady roar of power, Fergus was on his feet again. The mine-owners, the bosses have challenged us, they have scorned your executive, they have stated-publicly that we are too faint-hearted to rally the workers and come out on general strike! Well, brothers, we are going to show them. The lion's voice of the crowd rose again and he silenced it only after another minute. First, we are going to drive on the scabs, there are going to be no strikebreakers. When the sound subsided he went on, Slim Jannie Smuts has talked of force to beat a strike, he has an army, but we are going to have one also. I think the bosses have forgotten that we fought their bloody war for them in France and East Africa, at Tabora and Delville Wood.
The names sobered them and they were listening again. Last time we fought for them, but this time we are fighting for ourselves. Each one of you will report to his area commander, you will be armed into 2hting commandos, each man will know his job, and each man will know what is at stake. We will beat them, brothers, the bloody bosses and their greedy grasping minions. We will fight them and beat them! They are organized into military-style commandos, said the Prime Minister softly, breaking the crisp brown roll of bread with fingers that were surprisingly small, neat and capable as a woman's. Of course, we know that George Mason wanted to form labour commandos in 194- It was the main reason I had him deported. The other guests at the luncheon table were silent. The deportation of Mason was not an episode that reflected credit on Jannie Smuts.
But this is a different animal we are dealing with now.
Nearly all the younger members of the unions are trained veterans. Five hundred of them paraded outside the Trade Union Hall in Fordsburg last Saturday. He turned and smiled that impish, irresistible smile at his hostess. My dear Ruth, you must forgive my bad manners. This talk detracts from the delicious meal you have provided. The table was set under the oak trees on lawns so vivid green that Ruth always thought of them as English green.
The house itself had the solid imposing bulk of Georgian England, so different from the frivolous fairy castle at Emoyeni; the illusion of old England was spoiled only by the soaring cliffs of grey rock that rose as a backdrop to the scene. The sheer slopes of Table Mountain were softened by the pine trees that clung precariously for footholds on each ledge and in each tiny pocket of soil.
Ruth smiled at him, In this house, General, you may do as you wish. Thank you, my dear. The smile flickered off his face and the merry twinkle of the pale blue eyes changed to the glint of swords, as he turned back to his listeners. They are seeking confrontation, gentlemen, it's a blatant test of our power and resolution. Ruth caught Mark's eye at the foot of the table and he rose to refill the glasses with cold pale wine tinged with a touch of green, dry and crisp and refreshing, but as he moved down the board, pausing beside each guest, three Cabinet ministers, a visiting British Earl, the Secretary of the Chamber of Mines, he was listening avidly. We can only hope you put it too highly, Prime Minister, Sean Courtney intervened gruffly. They have only broomsticks with which to drill, and bicycles on which to ride into battle. .
And while they laughed, Mark paused behind Sean's chair with the bottle forgotten in his hand. He was remembering the cellars below the Trade Union Hall in Fordsburg, the racks of modern rifles, the gleaming P. I 4 reserved for him and the sinister squatting Vickers machine gun.
When he returned to the present, the conversation had moved on.
Sean Courtney was assuring the company that militant action by the unions was unlikely, and that in the worst circumstances, the army was geared to immediate call-up.
Mark had a small office adjoining the General's study. It had previously been a linen room, but was just large enough to accommodate a desk and several shelves of files.
The General had ordered a large window knocked through one wall to give it air and light, and now, with his ankles crossed and propped on the desk-top, Mark was staring thoughtfully out of the window. The view across lawns and through oaks encompa
ssed a sweep of Rhodes Avenue, named after that asthmatic old adventurer who had seized an empire in land and diamonds, and ended up Prime Minister of the first Cape Parliament, before suffocating from his weak lungs and heavy conscience. The Cape home of the Courtneys was named Somerset Lodge after Lord Charles, the nineteenth-century governor, and the great houses on the opposite side of Rhodes Avenue perpetuated the colonial tradition, Newlands House and Hiddingh House, gracious edifices in spacious grounds.
Looking out at them through the new window, Mark was comparing them with the miners cottages in Fordsburg Dip. He had not thought of Fergus and Helena in many months, but the conversation at lunch had brought them back forcibly, and he felt himself torn by sharply contradictory loyalties.
He had lived in both worlds now, and seen how each opposed the other. He was trying to think without emotion, but always a single image intruded, the cruel shape of weapons in orderly racks, deep in a dark cellar, and the slick smell of gun oil in his throat.
He lit another cigarette, delaying the decision. Through the solid teak door, the sound of voices from the General's study was muted, the higher clearer tones of the Prime Minister, bird-like almost, set against the rumbling of Sean's replies.
The Prime Minister had stayed on after the other luncheon guests had left, as he often did, but Mark wished that he would leave now, thus deferring the decision with which he was wrestling.
He had been trusted by a comrade, somebody who had shared mortal danger with him, and then had unstintingly shared the hospitality of his home, had trusted him like a brother, had not hesitated to give him access to the direst knowledge, had not hesitated to leave him alone with his wife. Mark had betrayed half of that trust, and he stirred restlessly in his seat as he remembered those wicked stolen days and nights with Helena. Now must he betray the rest of the trust that Fergus MacDonald had placed in him?