Power of the Sword c-10

by Wilbur Smith

  His only teacher had been his father. He had lived all his life with grown men; his father and Hendrick and the rough hard men of the road camps and trawler fleet.

  There had been no woman to caress or gentle him.

  She had been his first female companion, though her weakness and silliness irritated him. He had to wait for her to catch up when they climbed the hills and she wept when he beat a squirming catfish to death or wrung the neck of a fat feathered brown francolin taken in one of his noose snares. However, she could make him laugh and he enjoyed her voice when she sang, thin but sweet and melodious. Then again although her adulation was sometimes cloying and excessive, he experienced an unaccountable sense of well being when she was with him. She was quick to learn and in the few days they had been together she already had the alphabet by heart and the multiplication tables from two to ten.

  It would have been much better if she had been a boy, but then there was something else. The smell of her skin and the softness of her intrigued him. Her hair was so fine and silky. Sometimes he would touch it as though by accident and she would freeze and keep very still under his fingers, so that he was embarrassed and dropped his hand self-consciously.

  Occasionally she would brush against him like an affectionate cat and the strange pleasure this gave him was out of all proportion to the brief contact; and when they slept under the same blanket, he would awake in the night and listen to her breathing and her hair tickled his face.

  The road to Okahandja was long and hard and dusty. They had been on it for five days now. They travelled only in the early morning and late evening. In the noonday the men would rest up in the shade, and the two children could sneak away to talk and set snares or go over Sarah's lessons. They did not play games of make-believe as other children of their age might have done. Their lives were too close to harsh reality. And now a new threat had been thrust upon them: the threat of separation which grew more menacing with each mile of road that fell behind them. Manfred could not find the words of comfort for her. His own sense of coming loss was aggravated by her declaration of friendship. She snuggled against him under the single blanket and the heat that emanated from her thin frail body was startling. Awkwardly he slipped an arm around her thin shoulders and her hair was soft against his cheek.

  I'll come back for you. He had not meant to say that. He had not even thought it before that moment.

  Promise me. She twisted so that her lips were by his ear.

  Promise me you will come back to fetch me., I promise I will come back to you, he repeated solemnly, appalled at what he was doing. He had no control over his future, could never be certain of honouring a promise like that.

  When? She fastened on it eagerly. We have something to do. Manfred did not know the details of what his father and Henny were planning. He only understood that it was arduous and somehow dangerous.

  Something important. No, I can't tell you about it. But, when it is over, we will come back for you. It seemed to satisfy her. She sighed, and he felt the tension go out of her limbs. Her whole body softened with sleepiness, and her voice drifted into a low murmur.

  You are my friend, aren't you, Manie? Yes. I'm your friend. My best friend? Yes, your best friend. She sighed again and fell asleep. He stroked her hair, so soft and fluffy under his hand, and he was assailed by the melancholy of impending loss. He felt that he would weep, but that was a girlish thing and he would not let it happen.

  The following evening they trudged ankle-deep in the floury white dust up another fold in the vast undulating plain, and when the children caught up with Lothar at the crest, he pointed wordlessly ahead.

  The cluster of iron roofs of the little frontier town of Okahandja shone in the lowering sunlight like mirrors, and in their midst was the single spire of a church. Also clad in corrugated iron, it barely topped the trees which grew around it.

  A We'll be there after dark. Lothar eased his pack to his other shoulder and looked down at the girl. Her fine hair was plastered with dust and sweat to her forehead and cheeks, and her untidy sun-streaked blond pigtails stuck out behind her ears like horns. The sun had burned her so dark that were it not for the fair hair she might have been a Nama child. She was dressed as simply and her bare feet were white with floury dust.

  Lothar had considered and then rejected the idea of buying her a new dress and shoes at one of the little general-dealer's stores along the road. The expense might have been worthwhile, for if the child were rejected by his cousin, He did not follow the thought further. He would clean her up a little at the borehole that supplied the town's water.

  The lady you will be staying with is Mevrou Trudi Bierman. She is a very kind religious lady., Lothar had little in common with his cousin. They had not met in thirteen years. She is married to the dominie of the Dutch Reformed Church here at Okahandja. He is also a fine God-fearing man. They have children your age. You will be very happy with them. Will he teach me to read like Manie does? Of course he will. Lothar was prepared to give any assurance to rid himself of the child. He teaches his own children and you will be like one of them. Why can't Manie stay with me? Manie has to come with me. Please, can't I come with you too? No, you cannot. You'll stay here, and I don't want to go over that again. At the reservoir of the borehole pump Sarah bathed the dust from her legs and arms and dampened her hair before re-plaiting her pigtails.

  I'm ready, she told Lothar at last, and her lips trembled while he looked her over critically. She was a grubby little urchin, a burden upon them, but somehow a fondness for her had crept in upon him.

  He could not help but admire her spirit and her courage. Suddenly he found himself wondering if there was no other way than abandoning the child and it took an effort to thrust the idea aside and steel himself to what must be done.

  Come on then. He took her hand and turned to Manfred.

  You wait here with Henny. Please let me come with you, Pa, Manfred begged. Just as far as the gate. just to say goodbye to Sarah-, Lothar wavered and then agreed gruffly. All right, but keep your mouth shut and remember your manners. He led them down the narrow sanitary lane at the rear of the row of cottages until they came to the back gate of a larger house beside the church and obviously attached to it.

  There was no mistaking that it was the pastory. There was a light burning in the back room, the fierce white light of a Petromax lamp, and the bugs and moths were drumming against the wire screening that covered the back door.

  The sound of voices raised in a dolorous religious chant carried to them as they opened the gate and went up the kitchen path. When they reached the screen door they could see in the lighted kitchen beyond a family seated at a long deal table, singing together.

  Lothar knocked on the door and the hymn trailed away.

  From the head of the table a man rose and came towards the door. He was dressed in a black suit that bagged at the knees and elbows but was stretched tightly across his broad shoulders. His hair was thick and long, hanging in a greying mane to his shoulders and sprinkling the dark cloth with a flurry of dandruff.

  Who is it? he demanded, in a voice trained to boom out from the pulpit. He flung open the screen door and peered out into the dark. He had a broad intelligent forehead with the arrowhead of a sharp widow's peak emphasizing its depth, and his eyes were deep-set and fierce as those of a prophet from the Old Testament.

  You! He recognized Lothar, but made no attempt to greet him further. instead he looked back over his shoulder.

  'Mevrou, it is your godless cousin come in from the Wilderness like Cain! The fair-headed woman rose from the foot of the table, hushing the children and signalling them to remain in their seats. She was almost as tall as her husband, in her forties and well fleshed, with a rosy complexion and braids piled on top of her head in the Germanic fashion. She folded her thick creamy-skinned arms across her bulky shapeless bosom.

  What do you want with us, Lothar De La Rey? she demanded. This is the God-fearing home of Christian folk; We want n
othing of your wanton ways and wild behaviour. She broke off as she noticed the children and stared at them with interest.

  Hello, Trudi. Lothar drew Sarah forward into the light.

  It has been many years. You look well and happy., I am happy in God's love, his cousin agreed. But you know I have seldom been well. She assumed an expression of suffering and Lothar went on quickly.

  I am giving you another chance of Christian service. He pushed Sarah forward. This poor little orphan, she is alone.

  She needs a home. You could take her in, Trudi, and God will love you for it. Is it another of your, His cousin glanced back into the kitchen at the interested faces of her own two daughters, and then lowered her voice and hissed at him, Another of your bastards? Her family died in the typhoid epidemic. It was a mistake. He saw her recoil from the girl. That was weeks ago. She is free of the disease. Trudi relaxed a little and Lothar went on quickly. I cannot care for her. We are travelling, and she needs a woman. We have too many mouths already, she began, but her husband interrupted her.

  Come here, child, he boomed and Lothar shoved Sarah towards him. 'What is your name? Sarah Bester, Oom. So you are of the Volk? the tall dominie demanded. One of the true Afrikaner blood? Sarah nodded uncertainly.

  And your dead mother and father were wed in the Reformed Church? She nodded again. And you believe in the Lord God of Israel? Yes, Oom. My mother taught me, Sarah whispered.

  Then we cannot turn the child away, he told his wife.

  Bring her in, woman. God will provide. God always provides for his chosen people. Trudi Bierman sighed theatrically and reached for Sarah's arm. So thin, and filthy as a Nama piccaninny. And you, Lothar De La Rey, the dominie pointed a finger at him. Has not the merciful Lord yet shown you the error of your ways, and placed your feet on the path of righteousness? Not yet, dear cousin. Lothar backed away from the door, his relief undisguised.

  The dominie's attention flicked to the boy standing in the shadows behind Lothar. Who is this? ,My son, Manfred. Lothar placed a protective arm over the boy's shoulder, and the dominie came closer and stooped to study his face closely. His great dark beard bristled and his eyes were wild and fanatical, but Manfred stared directly into them, and saw them change. They warmed and lightened with the sparkle of good humour and compassion.

  Do I frighten you, Jong? His voice mellowed, and Manfred shook his head.

  No, Oomie, or not too much anyway. The dominie chuckled. Who teaches you your Bible, Jong? He used the expression meaning young or young man.

  My father, Oom. Then God have mercy on your soul. He stood up and thrust his beard out at Lothar.

  I would you had left the boy, rather than the girl, he told

  him, and Lothar tightened his grip on Manfred's shoulder. He is a likely looking lad, and we need good men in the service of God and the Volk. He is well taken care of. Lothar could not conceal his agitation, but the dominie dropped his compelling gaze back to Manfred.

  I think, Jong, that you and I are destined by Almighty God to meet again. When your father drowns or is eaten by a lion or hanged by the English, or in some other fashion punished by the Lord God of Israel, then come back here.

  Do you hear me, Jong? I need you, the Volk need you, and God needs you! My name is Tromp Bierman, the Trumpet of the Lord. Come back to this house! Manfred nodded. I will come back to see Sarah. I promised her. As he said it the girl's courage broke and she sobbed and tried to pull free from Trudi's grip.

  Stop that, child. Trudi Bierman shook her irritably. Stop blubbering. Sarah gulped and swallowed the next sob.

  Lothar turned Manfred away from the door. The child is hard-working and willing, cousin. You will not regret this charity, he called over his shoulder.

  That we shall see, his cousin muttered dubiously, and Lothar started back down the path.

  Remember the Lord's word, Lothar De La Rey, the Thimpet of the Lord bugled after them. I am the Way and the Light. Whosoever believeth in me- Manfred twisted in his father's grip and looked back.

  The tall gaunt figure of the dominie almost filled the kitchen doorway, but at the level of his waist Sarah's small face peered around him, in the light of the Petromax it was white as bone china and glistened with her tears.

  Four men were waiting for them at the rendezvous. During the desperate years when they had fought together in guerilla commando, it had been necessary for every man to know the reassembly points. When cut up and separated in the running battles against the Union troops, they had scattered away into the veld and days later come together at one of the safe places.

  There was always water at these assembly points, a seep in the rocky crevice of a hillside, a Bushman well or a dry riverbed where they could dig for the precious stuff. The assembly points were always sited with an all-round view so that a following enemy could never take them by surprise.

  In addition, there was always grazing nearby for the horses and shelter for the men, and they had laid down caches of supplies at these places.

  The rendezvous that Lothar had chosen for this meeting had an additional advantage. It was in the hills only a few miles north of the homestead of a prosperous German cattle-rancher, a good friend of Lothar's family, a sympathizer who could be relied upon to tolerate their presence on his lands.

  Lothar entered the hills along the dried watercourse that twisted through them like a maimed puffadder. He walked in the open so that the waiting men could see him from afar, and they were still two miles from the rendezvous when a tiny figure appeared on the rocky crest ahead of them, wind-milling his arms in welcome. He was quickly joined by the other three and then they came running down the rough hillside to meet Lothar's party in the river-bed.

  Leading them was Vark Jan', or Pig John', the old Khoisan warrior with his yellow wrinkled features that bespoke his mixed lineage of Nama and Berg-dama and, so he boasted, of even the true Bushman. Allegedly, his grandmother had been a Bushman slave captured by the Boers in one of the last great slave raids of the previous century. But then he was a famous har and opinion was divided as to the truth of this claim. He was followed closely by Klein Boy, Swart Hendrick's bastard son by a Herero mother.

  He came directly to his father and greeted him with the traditional deferential clapping of hands. He was as tall and as powerfully built as Hendrick himself, but with the finer features and slanted eyes of his mother, and his skin was not as dark. Like wild honey it changed colour as the sunlight played upon it. These two had worked on the trawlers at Walvis Bay, and Hendrick had sent them ahead to find the other men they needed and bring them to the rendezvous.

  Lothar turned to these men now. It was twelve years since last he had seen them. He remembered them as wild fighting men, his hunting dogs, he had called them with affection and total lack of trust. For like wild dogs they would have turned and savaged him at the first sign of weakness.

  Now he greeted them by their old noms de guerre. Legs', the Ovambo with legs like a stork and Buffalo', who carried his head hunched on his thick neck like that animal. They clasped hands, then wrists and then hands again in the ritual greeting of the band reserved for special occasions, as after long separation or a successful foray, and Lothar studied them and saw how twelve years and easy living had altered them. They were fat and soft and middle-aged but, he consoled himself, the tasks he had for them were not demanding.

  So! He grinned at them. We have pulled you off the fat bellies of your wives, and away from your beer-pots. And they roared with laughter.

  We came the same minute that Klein Boy and Pig John spoke your name to us, they assured him.

  Of course, you came only because of the love and loyalty you bear me, Lothar's sarcasm was biting, the way the vulture and the jackal come for love of the dead, not of the feast. They roared again. How they had missed the whip of his tongue.

  Pig John did mention gold, the Buffalo admitted, between sobs of laughter. And Klein Boy whispered that there might be fighting again. It is sad, but a man of my ag
e can pleasure his wives only once or twice a day, but he can fight and enjoy old companions and plunder day and night without end, and the loyalty we bear you is wide as the Kalahari, Stork Legs said, and they hooted with laughter and beat each other upon the back.

  Still rumbling with occasional laughter, the group left the riverbed and climbed up to the old rendezvous point. It was a low overhanging shelf of rock, the roof blackened with the soot of countless campfires and the rear wall decorated with the ochre-coloured designs and drawings of the little yellow Bushmen who, before them, had used this shelter down the ages. From the entrance of the shelter there was a sweeping view out across the shimmering plains. It would be almost impossible to approach the hilltop undetected.

  The four first-corners had already opened the cache. It had been hidden in a cleft of rock further down the side of the hill, and the entrance closed with boulders and plastered over with clay from the riverbank. The contents had survived the years better than Lothar had expected. Of course, the canned food and the ammunition cases had all been sealed, while the Mauser rifles were packed in thick yellow grease and wrapped in grease-paper. They were in perfect condition. Even most of the spare saddlery and clothing had been preserved by the desert's dry air.

  They feasted on fried bully beef and toasted ship's biscuit, food they had once hated for its monotony but now was delicious and evocative of countless other meals, back in those desperate days rendered attractive by the passage of the years.

  After they had eaten they picked over the saddlery and boots and clothing, rejecting those items damaged by insects and rodents or dried out like parchment, cannibalizing and re-stitching and polishing with dubbin until they had equipment and arms for all of them.