by Peter Rimmer
“Or we knock out a train today. Run like hell and knock out another fifty miles away next week. They can guard the bridges but not all that railway line. This side of the kopje we can roll boulders onto the track and the train driver will only see them when he comes round the bend when he won’t be able to stop. Derail the engines without even using our explosives.”
“After the second rock pile, they’ll come looking for us.”
“Then we lead them all over the bush and come back to the railway line to do it again. The more men looking for us, the less to fight Methuen.”
“You and Gregory can lead us round in circles and not get lost?”
“Your brother would be better but I can try. Knowing where you are in the bush is more instinct than science. But unless nine men can kill the guard on the bridge, you’ll never blow up the bridge. For my say that bridge is out of the question without artillery.”
“All right. Good. Let’s put some rocks on the rail and see what happens. They might even think it was a rockslide the first time. We’ll need to cut a tree to give us a pole to lever out the boulders.”
The following night they camped in thick mopane forest next to a giant baobab tree that was hollow in the centre and big enough for all nine of them to sleep comfortably away from the rain. In the centre, they made a fire for cooking. High in the dark dome of the hollow tree, Henry counted seven sets of eyes by the flickering light of the fire. The bats, hanging upside down, were wide awake.
Less than a mile away, the giant boulder that had needed the leverage from three tree trunks to be put onto the line waited around the blind bend, shielded from sight by a small hill the railway engineers had sliced to make way for the rails. Outside under a tree dripping from the last rain, Gregory listened for a train from the south. They had dropped the boulder onto the track after the empty train from the north had passed. There was movement all around him, scuffles and grunts as the wild pigs foraged for food. Just before Gregory heard the train, a baboon let out a blood-curdling cry, followed by another as a leopard killed. The train was probably ten miles away and as he went into the tree to report, the rain came down in a flat deluge and the sound of the train was lost in the squall.
“They’re coming,” said Gregory.
Leaving the horses tethered around the fire for protection, the troop moved out to see whether the boulder would derail the steam engine. Unless fired upon, they were to remain silent. On the back slope of the hill, they waited. The brief deluge of rain had stopped and the sound of metal on metal dominated the bush. They could hear the engine labour as it began the slow climb, pulling what they knew was a long line of full wagons.
“It’s not going fast enough,” whispered Henry.
“They can’t hear you over that racket,” said James. “May not derail the train, old chap, but they won’t get past. Bloody big rock that one.”
From his vantage point, James could see the sparks from the engine and the shape of the boulder silent on the line. Then he heard the crash, and the bush was shattered by noise and fire as the engine toppled onto its side, spewing hot steam. Through the steam, James saw the mouth of the furnace and heard the screams of the driver.
“Time to go, gentlemen. Take the Boers a while to put that fellow back on the rails.”
Silently, they moved back down the slope, slithering in the wet. Back in the mopane forest, they waited for dawn while they listened to the noise from their train wreck. In the pitch dark, it had been easier to cut the railway line and follow it to the boulder than to find their baobab tree and the horses in the mopane forest.
In the first thin light of morning, Henry led them back to the big tree. The fire had burnt down, and the horses whickered at them with relief. As they ate breakfast, the bats flew back to roost inside the baobab tree.
“We do it again, one week from today,” said James, “then they’ll know and come looking for us. But I’ll tell you something: after tonight, we may defeat the Boer in battle, but if he comes at us the way we fought, it’ll take us a month of Sundays to winkle him out.”
Five hundred yards on the other side of the Mazoe River from the houses where the trees had been stumped out, the valley up to the foothills was lush with green fields of tall maize undulating in the light breeze. Sebastian, viewing the culmination of his hard work and the toiling labour of his workforce, smiled with satisfaction… Farming, he told himself, was the only job where you could see the end result. The rich, red soil and the good rains had grown the stands of maize higher than his head and already in the middle of January, the plants were beginning to tassel. With the price of maize meal double with the demand down south, Sebastian calculated that for the first time in all these years, Elephant Walk was going to make a profit large enough to compensate for the losses that had accumulated in the previous years.
“That section,” he said to his black foreman, pointing to his left at twenty acres, “is for your people. What you don’t eat, you sell for your own profit. That is your bonus, all of you, for the year. If you want, I will sell the surplus for you and give you the money. So long as I run this farm, hard work will always have its reward. Tell the gang, work is finished for the day.”
Walking back and crossing the top of the weir they had built across the river, he hoped the man understood his broken Shona. Harry, sitting under the thick foliage of a msasa tree, was reading another of his grandfather’s books while he waited for the British Army to capture the railway line north of Kimberley so he could go back to school.
“You want to do me a favour, son, and explain to Sam what we agreed about the twenty-acre land? I tried, but I’m not sure he understood half of it and I want to be certain. A man must know why he’s getting a bonus and how much. Sam will have to distribute this year but in future I want each family to have their own rows to cultivate from the start. Whatever they sell, Sam will get an extra ten per cent from me in cash. Everyone in life must have an incentive, however big or small.”
Harry nodded to his father. “I’m going out with the gun to shoot guinea fowl.”
“Good. Haven’t eaten one for all of three days.”
“You miss Uncle Tinus, don’t you, Dad?”
“And not only because he was the only one who was good enough to shoot a buck at seven hundred yards.”
“You could do it.”
“I’ve told you, Harry, I’ve given up killing. Some of those elephants still haunt my dreams.”
“I wonder who’s winning the war?”
“No one. No one ever wins wars. I even feel guilty about taking the extra price for the maize. We will give some of the crop’s proceeds to charity.”
“Not to Uncle Nat!”
“No, not to Uncle Nat. We’ll think of something we can do ourselves.”
“Aunty Fran’s been sick again.”
“Has she now?”
“Yes, she has. And Mother says she’s going to have the baby today.”
“Your mother’s not due for another month.”
“Today, she said. Had enough of being fat. I think Aunty Fran is in the family way.”
“How do you know?”
“Father, please. I’ve seen a lot of babies come and go around here. I’m twelve in April and what’s more, my voice is about to break.”
“Who told you that?”
“A boy at school… Father, how does a voice break? Sounds terrible. Will I be able to talk?”
“You’d better ask your mother.”
“Mother said to ask you.”
“Not now.”
“Will you tell me before going to war?”
“I’m not going to war. And Harry. Take the smirk off your face. I rather think you know more than you’re saying about this voice-breaking business.”
“I rather think you’re right. When are we going into Salisbury to hear the war news? Roberts and Kitchener must have arrived in South Africa by now and General Buller can stop blowing hot and cold. You have to fight a war to win it. Ca
n’t sit on the fence. He never commits more than a few of his troops at a time.”
“I’m sure the general knows what he’s doing. Who told you all this?”
“I read, Father. The newspapers. The wonderful thing about reading is you know what’s going on.”
“Good. I’ll give you a book on the voice thing.”
“I’ve read it. Two, actually. Housemaster caught me in the library and gave me a wallop.”
“Then why ask me and your mother?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“You’re smirking again, Harry. Go on and get your guinea fowl before I give you a wallop. We’ll go in tomorrow. I want your mother to see the doctor. Don’t forget to talk to Sam.”
“Can we all stay at Meikles for the night?”
“Yes, we can.”
“Even George?”
“Even George.”
“It’s not fair.”
“Nothing in life is fair, Harry. You’ll find that out soon enough.”
Early the next morning, when Harry was talking to Sam, Sarie Mostert opened the door to her banished hut and knew something was wrong. All four of her dogs were quiet but alert. There was no one about and she could feel the emptiness of the farm. The children came from behind and each put a hand in hers and the three of them listened to the silence.
“Elijah,” she called into the stillness, and then to herself, “Not even Elijah, that’s bad.”
“Go inside,” she said to her twins. “The blacks have gone.”
“Where’ve they gone, Mummy?” asked Klara.
“How must I know?”
“Are they coming back?” asked Griet.
“No, I think they’re not.”
“Who’s going to work the farm?”
“We are, best we can.”
“But I’m only five.”
“Griet, you’re going to have to be like a man on the farm. Pretend you’re seven or eight.”
“Can I be seven or eight?” asked Klara.
“Of course you can, silly. We’re twins. If I’m seven or eight so are you.”
“Then, Mrs Seven-year-old, please take your sister and go and feed the pigs and then come to the kitchen.”
“You think Ouma has gone?”
“She’ll be there.”
Inside the kitchen, the mother of the three youngest sons of Ezekiel Oosthuizen sat stone still. She heard the white trash Frikkie had brought back from Pretoria open the door and still she refused to speak. Not being married was an abomination. The children and the mother had not even been christened, that much she had found out from her eldest son. And now the war had left them alone. God had deserted Helena Crouse who was now Helena Oosthuizen. God had left her alone in hell. Biting back tears of fear, her white knuckles gripping the edge of the kitchen table, she turned and glared at the white trash that was putting wood in the side of the stove below the big kettle to kindle new flames. The girl was dirty to the core, unclean in the sight of God, and how her Frikkie had brought a whore into his home was a matter for Frikkie and his God.
The girl came towards her as was the rule and put out her hands for inspection, showing the nails first and then the calloused palms, outwardly clean but inwardly filthy. They neither looked at each other nor spoke as was the rule, and with the flames of the wood adding to the heat of the new day, the kettle began to boil. From outside she heard the pigs snorting and grunting, squeaking with pleasure, and knew they were being fed and wondered who was feeding them, and then she knew. Elijah, faithful Elijah had come back to serve her as the tribe of Ham were ordained to serve in the Bible. Patiently she waited to hear the deep voice of Elijah chiding the hungry pigs, and all that came to her through the open door was the piping sound of the whore’s children, bastards till the day they died and went to hell to join their mother in the fire of eternal damnation. Then the truth dawned slowly and surely… The bastards were feeding her pigs.
The irony of the woman’s comprehension was not lost on Sarie as she put the freshly made pot of coffee on the kitchen table, the table scrubbed almost white by the blacks. She had wiped the pot to make sure nothing spilt and the four mugs, two big and two small, waited for the woman’s attention next to the bowl of sugar. No one had milked the cow so the small pot of cream was missing from the table. The small woman was as neat as a pin, even so early in the morning, the full black dress that fell past her ankles buttoned to the middle of her neck, just below the green velvet ribbon that matched the green eyes. Sarie, always generous to a fault, thought the woman must have been pretty as a girl. While she stood waiting for her coffee, she heard the girls come back from the pig pens and guessed correctly the moment when her dogs would bark with pleasure and the twins would start chasing the dogs in circles. The feeling of joy and wellbeing swelled inside… Everything she loved in the world was happy. And then the feeling sank, and she turned her head away from the woman now pouring coffee as the pain of memory pricked behind her eyes as she thought of Billy.
Taking the two small mugs in one hand and her own in the other she went out of the kitchen as silently as she had come. The dogs raced off away from the children, two of them trying to jump on each other’s backs while the one with the black and white tail nipped at her sister’s back legs trying to herd them, a throwback instinct to some lost pedigree. As always Sarie warned the twins the coffee was hot and as always the hot coffee bit their tongues. They sat together on the bench under the mango tree and slowly drank the sweet coffee. Behind them, a morning dove called and called.
The woman looked at them through the kitchen window. The girl was simply dressed with the puff sleeves almost to her elbows, the gown faded with sun and washing. A flush of jealousy saturated her body bringing out sweat under her armpits and down the cleavage between her breasts. She had tried so hard to give Ezekiel a daughter to replace the one her predecessor had lost, dying herself. With a will stronger than iron she controlled herself. The girl’s hair was pulled back and showed an oval face with a small sweet mouth and small pink ears, and the smile the girl gave to her running dogs and then to her daughters wrenched at the tight fury of her jealousy. The girl was pretty, she could see that from the safety of the kitchen window, and the bastards, swinging their shoeless feet under the bench, were as pretty as any little girls Helena had seen in her life. And then a terrible thought came and lived for one brief moment… If only the little girls were her grandchildren and Sarie her daughter.
Across the clear highveld, Sarie heard the jangle of the horses’ bits and knew the reason why the blacks had fled into the bush. The twins heard the faint sound and stopped playing with the dogs. The morning dove, high in the blue-green trees behind the buildings, stopped singing. The bush waited, and the dogs turned to face the danger. Sarie told them to wait and all four dogs sat down on their haunches. Sarie could see the woman looking across at them through the closed kitchen window.
“Maybe this time we will have to speak to each other,” she said, giving her thoughts the sound of her voice. The dog with the black and white tail turned and looked at her.
“What is it, Mummy?” asked Griet.
“Horsemen. Probably soldiers. Go and tell Ouma. She has to be ready.”
“Who are they?” asked Klara.
“I don’t know.”
Neither of the twins moved from the shade of the mango tree. Sarie watched down the track. When the slouch hats of the riders rose from the ground into view and then the horses, the dogs, frightened by the number of horsemen, turned and ran back, their eyes pleading with their mistress to run with them away from the unknown.
“They’re Boers,” said Sarie. The dust around the horsemen swirled between the animals’ legs and over the rifles in the saddle holsters, enveloping the motley group of men dressed as they would have been to go to work on their farms.
“Children, go into the room… Now!”
Sarie stood up from the bench and waited.
“Whose farm is this?” demanded a
man as the horses stopped in the yard, all but the leader getting down… The man found it easier to intimidate people from a height.
“Ezekiel Oosthuizen.”
“General Cronjé requests food for his army.”
“Requests or demands?”
“Same thing. Are you Mrs Oosthuizen?”
“Of course not.”
The man sniggered. He could see white trash wherever he found it. “Where are your blacks to help us round up the animals?”
“They ran away.”
One of the unmounted men had found the pigs. The squealing and honking started all over again. Sarie hoped her dogs were far enough away and out of sight. By the time the ordnance wagon rolled into the yard the pigs were trussed, the bags of grain from last year were in the yard and Sarie was still alone under the mango tree. She counted the bags of grain and knew they had left them nothing. The chickens squawked as they ran for their lives and still the woman stayed in the kitchen looking out of the window.
“I’m sorry,” said the man, “it’s the war. Same for all of us. There is going to be a big battle. Many men will die. You will be alive. It’s the war. Ezekiel Oosthuizen, the preacher, he will understand.” The man leant down from his horse and chucked Sarie under the chin. “It’s the war,” he said again.
When the morning dove began to sing an hour later the farm was still and empty and Sarie sat on the bench under the mango tree. She was smiling. All four of her dogs, tails between their legs, were slowly walking towards her across the yard. By the time they reached her, she was on her knees hugging the dogs.
Inside the kitchen, still staring out of the window, Helena was paralysed with fear. All the sharpness of her tongue had gone with the pigs and chickens, the grain, the cows she had seen them herd away between the riders. To make it worse, the girl had stopped playing with her dogs and was staring across at her from under the mango tree. Only when the girl went into the hut she shared with her children did Helena break the spell of her paralysis. For half an hour she hoped the girl would come and tell her what had happened.
