by Wilbur Smith
As they approached the shack there was smoke rising from the chimney and when they entered the lean-to kitchen, there was a fire on the open hearth. Swart Hendrick looked up from it.
‘The Jew has taken the table and the chairs,’ he said. ‘But I hid the pots and the mugs.’
They sat on the floor and ate straight from the pot, a porridge of maize meal flavoured with salty wind-dried fish. Nobody spoke until they had finished.
‘You didn’t have to stay.’ Lothar broke the silence and Hendrick shrugged.
‘I bought coffee and tobacco at the store. The money you paid me was just enough.’
‘There is no more,’ Lothar said. ‘It is all gone.’
‘It’s all been gone before.’ Hendrick lit his pipe with a twig from the fire. ‘We have been broke many times before.’
‘This time it is different,’ Lothar said. ‘This time there is no ivory to hunt or—’ He broke off as his anger choked him again, and Hendrick poured more coffee into the tin mugs.
‘It is strange,’ Hendrick said. ‘When we found her, she was dressed in skins. Now she comes in her big yellow car,’ he shook his head and chuckled, ‘and we are the ones in rags.’
‘It was you and I that saved her,’ Lothar agreed. ‘More than that, we found her diamonds for her, and dug them from the ground.’
‘Now she is rich,’ Hendrick said, ‘and she comes to take what we have also. She shouldn’t have done that.’ He shook his great black head. ‘No, she shouldn’t have done that.’
Lothar straightened up slowly. Hendrick saw his expression and leaned forward eagerly, and the boy stirred and smiled for the first time.
‘Yes.’ Hendrick began to grin. ‘What is it? Ivory is finished – it’s all been hunted out long ago.’
‘No, not ivory. This time it will be diamonds,’ Lothar replied.
‘Diamonds?’ Hendrick rocked back on his heels. ‘What diamonds?’
‘What diamonds?’ Lothar smiled at him, and his yellow eyes glowed. ‘Why, the diamonds we found for her, of course.’
‘Her diamonds?’ Hendrick stared at him. ‘The diamonds from the H’ani Mine?’
‘How much money have you got?’ Lothar demanded and Hendrick’s eyes shifted. ‘I know you well,’ Lothar went on impatiently and seized his shoulder. ‘You’ve always got a little bit salted away. How much?’
‘Not much.’ Hendrick tried to rise but Lothar held him down.
‘You have earned well this last season. I know exactly how much I have paid you.’
‘Fifty pounds,’ grunted Hendrick.
‘No.’ Lothar shook his head. ‘You’ve got more than that.’
‘Perhaps a little more.’ Hendrick resigned himself.
‘You have got a hundred pounds,’ Lothar said definitely. ‘That’s how much we will need. Give it to me. You know you will get it back many times over. You always have, and you always will.’
The track was steep and rocky and the party straggled up it in the early sunlight. They had left the yellow Daimler at the bottom of the mountain on the banks of the Liesbeek stream and begun the climb in the ghostly grey light of pre-dawn.
In the lead were two old men in disreputable clothing, scuffed velskoen on their feet and sweatstained shapeless straw hats on their heads. They were both so lean as to appear half starved, skinny but sprightly, their skin darkened and creased by long exposure to the elements, so that a casual observer might have thought them a couple of old hoboes – and there were enough of that type on the roads and byways in these days of the great Depression.
The casual observer would have been in error. The taller of the two old men limped slightly on an artificial leg and was a Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire, a holder of the highest award for valour that the Empire could offer, the Victoria Cross, and he was also one of the most eminent military historians of the age, a man so rich and careless of worldly wealth that he seldom bothered to count his fortune.
‘Old Garry,’ his companion addressed him, rather than as Sir Garrick Courtney. ‘That is the biggest problem we have to deal with, old Garry.’ He was explaining in his high, almost girlish voice, rolling his Rs in that extraordinary fashion that was known as the ‘Malmesbury bray’. ‘Our people are deserting the land and flocking to the cities. The farms are dying, and there is no work for them in the cities.’ His voice was unwinded although they had climbed 2,000 feet up the sheer turreted side of Table Mountain without a pause, maintaining the pace that had outdistanced all the younger members of the party.
‘It’s a recipe for disaster,’ Sir Garrick agreed. ‘They are poor on the farms, but when they leave them they starve in the cities. Starving men are dangerous men, Ou Baas. History teaches us that.’
The man he called ‘old master’ was smaller in stature, though he carried himself straighter. He had merry blue eyes under the drooping brim of his Panama hat and a grey goatee beard that waggled as he spoke. Unlike Garry, he was not rich; he owned only a small farm on the high frost-browned veld of the Transvaal, and he was as careless of his debts as Garry was of his fortune, but the world was his paddock and had heaped honours upon him. He had been awarded honorary doctorates by fifteen of the world’s leading universities, Oxford and Cambridge and Columbia amongst them. He was the freeman of ten cities, London and Edinburgh and the rest. He had been a general in the Boer forces and now he was general in the army of the British Empire, a Privy Councillor, a Companion of Honour, a King’s Counsel, a bencher of the Middle Temple and a Fellow of the Royal Society. His chest was not wide enough for all the stars and ribbons he was entitled to wear. He was without question the cleverest, wisest, most charismatic and influential man that South Africa had ever produced. It was almost as though his spirit was too big to be contained by terrestrial borders, as though he were a true citizen of the wide world. This was the one chink in his armour, and his enemies had sent their poison-tipped arrows through it. ‘His heart is across the sea, not with you,’ and it had brought down his government of the South African Party of which he had been prime minister, minister of defence and of native affairs. Now he was leader of the opposition. However, he was a man who thought of himself as a botanist by preference and a soldier and politician by necessity.
‘We should wait for the others to catch up.’ General Jan Smuts paused on a lichen-covered rocky platform and leaned on his staff. The two of them peered back down the slope.
A hundred paces below them a woman plodded grimly up the path; the outline of her thighs through her heavy calico skirts were thick and powerful as the haunches of a brood mare, and her bare arms were as muscled as those of a wrestler.
‘My little dove,’ Sir Garry murmured fondly as he watched his bride. After fourteen long years of courtship she had only acceded to his suit six months before.
‘Do hurry, Anna,’ the boy behind her on the narrow path entreated. ‘It will be noon before we reach the top and I’m dying for breakfast.’ Shasa was as tall as she was, though half her bulk.
‘Go ahead if you are in such a big hurry,’ she growled at him. The thick solar topee was pulled low over her red, round face. Her features were as folded as those of a friendly bulldog. ‘Though why anybody should want to reach the top of this cursed mountain—’
‘I’ll give you a shove,’ Shasa offered, and placed both hands on Lady Courtney’s massive round buttocks. ‘Heave ho! And up she rises!’
‘Stop that, you wicked boy,’ Anna gasped as she scrambled to adjust to her sudden rapid ascent, ‘or I’ll break this stick over your backside. Oh! Stop now. That’s enough.’
Until she had become Lady Courtney, she had been plain Anna, Shasa’s nurse and his mother’s beloved maid. Her meteoric rise up the social ladder had in no way altered their relationship.
They arrived gasping and protesting and laughing on the ledge. ‘Here she is, Grandpater! Special delivery!’ Shasa grinned at Garry Courtney, who separated them firmly and fondly. The beautiful boy and the homely red-f
aced woman were the most precious of all his treasures, his wife and his only grandson.
‘Anna, my sweeting, you mustn’t tax the boy’s strength so,’ he warned her with a straight face, and she struck him on the arm half playfully and half in exasperation.
‘I should be seeing to the lunch rather than gallivanting around on this mountain.’ Her accent was still thick Flemish, and she relapsed thankfully into Afrikaans as she turned to General Smuts. ‘How much further is it, Ou Baas?’
‘Not far, Lady Courtney, not far at all. Ah! Here are the others. I was beginning to worry about them.’
Centaine and her companions emerged from the edge of the forest further down the slope. She wore a loose white skirt that left her legs bare from the knees and a white straw hat decorated with artificial cherries. When they caught up with the leaders, Centaine smiled at General Smuts. ‘I’m winded, Ou Baas. May I lean on you for the last lap?’ And though she was barely glowing with exertion he gallantly offered her his arm and they were first to reach the crest.
These annual picnics on Table Mountain were the traditional family way of celebrating Sir Garrick Courtney’s birthday, and his old friend General Smuts made a point of never missing the occasion.
On the crest they all spread out to sit in the grass and catch their breath. Centaine and the old general were a little apart from the others. Below them lay the whole sweep of the Constantia Valley, patchworked with vineyards in full green summer livery. Scattered amongst them the Dutch gables of the great châteaux glowed like pearls in the low rays of the sun and the smoky mountains of the Muizenberg and Kabonkelberg formed a solid amphitheatre of grey rock, hemming in the valley to the south while in the north the far mountains of the Hottentots Holland were a rampart that cut off the Cape of Good Hope from the continental shield of the African Continent. Directly ahead, wedged between the mountains, the waters of False Bay were ruffling and flecking at the rising importunity of the south-easter. It was so beautiful that they were silenced for many minutes.
General Smuts spoke first. ‘So, Centaine, my dear, what did you want to talk about?’
‘You are a mind-reader, Ou Baas.’ She laughed ruefully. ‘How do you know these things?’
‘These days, when a pretty girl takes me aside, I can be sure it’s business and not pleasure.’ He twinkled at her.
‘You are one of the most attractive men I’ve ever met—’
‘Ah ha! Such a compliment! It must be serious.’
Her change of expression confirmed it. ‘It’s Shasa,’ she said simply.
‘No problem there – or I miss my guess.’
She took a single-paged document from her skirt pocket and handed it to him. It was a school report. The embossed crest was a bishop’s mitre, the emblem of the country’s most exclusive public school.
The general glanced at it. She knew how swiftly he could read even a complicated legal document, so when he handed it back to her almost immediately she was not put out. He would have it all, even down to the headmaster’s summation on the last line: ‘Michel Shasa is a credit to himself and to Bishops.’
General Smuts smiled at her. ‘You must be very proud of him.’
‘He is my entire life.’
‘I know,’ he said, ‘and that is not always wise. A child soon becomes a man, and when he leaves he will take your life with him. However, in what way can I help you, my dear?’
‘He is bright and personable and he has a way with people, even those much older than himself,’ she replied. ‘I would like to have a seat for him in Parliament, to begin with.’
The general removed the Panama hat from his head and smoothed back his sparkling silver hair with the palm of his hand. ‘I do think he should finish his schooling before he enters Parliament, don’t you, my dear!’ he chuckled.
‘That’s it. That is exactly what I want to know from you, Ou Baas. Should Shasa go home to Oxford or Cambridge, or will that count against him later when he goes to the electorate? Should he rather attend one of the local universities – and if so, should it be Stellenbosch or the University of Cape Town?’
‘I will think about it, Centaine, and I will give you my advice when it is time to make the final decision. But in the meantime may I be bold enough to warn you of something else, a state of mind which could prejudice your plans for the young man.’
‘Please, Ou Baas,’ she begged. ‘A word of yours is worth—’ she did not have to find a comparison, for the general went on softly.
‘That word “home” – it is a fatal one. Shasa must decide where his true home is, and if it is across the sea, then he must not count on my assistance.’
‘How foolish of me.’ He saw that she was truly angry with herself. Her cheeks darkened and her lips hardened. Soutpiel. She remembered that jeer. One foot in London, the other in Cape Town. It was no longer amusing.
‘It won’t happen again,’ she said, and she laid her hand on his arm to impress him with her sincerity. ‘So you will help him?’
‘Can we have breakfast now, Mater?’ Shasa called across.
‘All right, put the basket on the bank of the stream over there.’ She turned back to the old man. ‘Can I count on you?’
‘I am in opposition, Centaine—’
‘You won’t be for long. The country must come to its senses at the next election.’
‘You must realize I cannot promise you anything now.’ He was choosing his words carefully. ‘He is still a child. However, I will be watching him. If he fulfils this early promise, if he meets my standards, then he will have all my support. God knows how we need good men.’
She sighed with pleasure and relief, and he went on more easily. ‘Sean Courtney was an able minister in my government.’
Centaine started at the name. It brought back so many memories, so much intense pleasure, and deep sorrow, so many dark and secret things. But the old man appeared not to have noticed her consternation as he went on. ‘He was also a dear and trusted friend. I would like to have another Courtney in my government, someone to trust, a good friend, perhaps one day another Courtney in my cabinet.’
He stood and helped her to her feet. ‘I’m as hungry as Shasa, and the smell of food is too good to resist.’
Yet when the food was offered, the general ate most frugally, while the rest of them, led by Shasa, attacked the food with ravenous appetites sharpened by the climb. Sir Garry carved from the cold cuts of lamb and pork and the turkey, and Anna dished out slices of the pies, Melton Mowbray, ham and egg, minced fruit and cubes of pigs’ trotter embedded in delicious clear gelatine.
‘One thing is certain,’ Cyril Slaine, one of Centaine’s general managers, declared with relief. ‘The basket will be a sight lighter on the way down.’
‘And now,’ the general roused them from where they sprawled, satiated, on the bank of the tiny burbling stream, ‘and now for the main business of the day.’
‘Come on everybody.’ Centaine was the first on her feet in a swirl of skirts, gay as a girl. ‘Cyril, leave the basket here. We’ll pick it up on the way back.’
They skirted the very edge of the grey cliff, with the world spread below them, until the general suddenly darted off to the left and scrambled over rock and through flowering heather and protea bush, disturbing the sugar birds that were sipping from the blooms. They rose in the air, flirting their long tail feathers and flashing their bright yellow belly patches with indignation at the intrusion.
Only Shasa could keep up with the general, and when the rest of the party caught the pair of them again, they were standing on the lip of a narrow rocky glen with bright green swamp grass carpeting the bottom.
‘Here we are, and the first one to find a disa wins a sixpence,’ General Smuts offered.
Shasa dashed away down the steep side of the glen, and before they were halfway down he was yelling excitedly.
‘I’ve found one! The sixpence is mine!’
They straggled down from the rough rim and at the edge of t
he swampy ground formed a hushed and attentive circle around the graceful lily-stemmed orchid.
The general went down on one knee before it like a worshipper. ‘It is indeed a blue disa, one of the rarest flowers on our earth.’ The blossoms that adorned the stem were a marvellous cerulean blue, shaped like dragon’s heads, their gaping throats lined with imperial purple and butter yellow. ‘They only grow here on Table Mountain, nowhere else in the world.’
He looked up at Shasa. ‘Would you like to do the honours for your grandfather this year, young man?’
Shasa stepped forward importantly to pick the wild orchid and hand it to Sir Garry. This little ceremony of the blue disa was part of the traditional birthday ceremony and they all laughed and applauded the presentation.
Watching her son proudly, Centaine’s mind went back to the day of his birth, to the day the old Bushman had named him Shasa, ‘Good Water’, and had danced for him in the sacred valley deep in the Kalahari. She remembered the birth song that the old man had composed and sung, the Bushman language clicking and rustling in her head again, so well remembered, so well loved:
His arrows will fly to the stars
And when men speak his name
It will be heard as far –
the old Bushman had sung,
And he will find good water,
Wherever he travels, he will find good water.
She saw again in her mind, the old long-dead Bushman’s face, impossibly wrinkled and yet glowing that marvellous apricot colour, like amber or mellowed meerschaum, and she whispered deep in her throat, using the Bushman tongue.
‘Let it be so, old grandfather. Let it be so.’
On the return journey the Daimler was only just large enough to accommodate all of them, with Anna sitting on Sir Garry’s lap and submerging him beneath her abundance.
As Centaine drove down the twisting road through the forest of tall blue gum trees, Shasa leaned over the seat from behind her and encouraged her to greater speed. ‘Come on, Mater, you’ve still got the hand brake on!’