by JH Fletcher
SIX
Christiaan Wolmarans came through the front door of the big house and strode to the head of the brick steps. Below him, on the expanse of open ground, twenty mounted men waited, coats drawn tight about them, breath pluming the air.
It was dawn, the last day of July 1883, and lamplight shone through the windows of the house. It was a morning of bruised skies and an icy wind bringing the threat of snow from the dragon-backed mountains that surrounded the valley.
Christiaan ran down the steps, cinching his belt tight about his brown leather jacket. He wore no top coat yet was warm despite the weather, excitement and a hunger for vengeance like fire in his belly.
Two weeks earlier five convicts had escaped from the Cape Town breakwater, fifty miles away. The previous day the band had arrived in the valley and broken into the first house they found — the Wessels place, an isolated farm high on the mountain. Johannes Wessels was out. They locked the wife, her ten-year-old son and the maid servant in a bedroom while they ransacked the house. Wessels returned unexpectedly. No doubt frightened of being sent back to jail, they cut his throat and then, panicking, killed the wife, child and maid before making off with some rifles and all the food and ammunition they could carry.
The field hand had been away looking for a stray calf. When he got back that evening and found the bodies, he took the farmer’s horse and galloped to the next farm to raise the alarm. Like a firestorm the news spread through the valley and now the local commando had gathered outside Christiaan Wolmarans’s house to track the killers and bring them to justice.
Christiaan drew on his leather gauntlets as he reached the foot of the steps. His horse was waiting for him, its black coat gleaming, the butt of the rifle protruding from the holster behind the saddle.
‘Good morning, my baas.’
The twelve-year-old child who was acting as groom touched his forehead and looked up at him with big eyes, overawed by the man who was known to every human being in the valley and for miles beyond.
‘Good morning, Jacob.’
Christiaan knew all his people, adults and children alike, but this morning, unusually, did not return the shy smile. It was an ill-omened day, and his face was grim.
He swung himself into the saddle and trotted forward to join the other members of the commando. He had many horses, but Jupiter was his favourite. It was a huge beast, eighteen hands, and as black as the pit of hell. He needed a big horse to carry him. He was a giant of a man, six feet five inches tall and as broad as a barn. He had a hard, strong face, vivid blue eyes, yellow hair hidden now beneath a broad-brimmed black hat, and a yellow beard that spread across his chest. He wore a full bandolier over one shoulder, a pistol in the holster buckled to his belt and a skinning knife in his boot. He had lived in the valley all his life, as his ancestors had before him for over one hundred and forty years.
In the big house he had left behind him his wife Sara, a daughter aged eight and a son two years younger. He was master of Oudekraal, richest and oldest farm in the district, and elected Kommandant of the burghers of the valley. If the day went according to plan, tonight or maybe tomorrow he would teach his son something of what that responsibility meant.
He reined in, facing the assembled men. He did not greet them but took a well-worn book bound in black leather from the saddlebag behind him. They did not have their own dominee in the valley. It was Christiaan’s job as Kommandant to read the words before he led them out.
He turned the pages, knowing exactly the passages he was seeking.
The icy wind stiffened his face as he began to read.
‘“Anyone who strikes a man and kills him, he shall surely be put to death.”’ He turned the pages. ‘“Let God arise, and let his enemies be scattered: let them also that hate him flee before him. Like as the smoke vanisheth, so shalt thou drive them away: and like as wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish at the presence of God.”’ His voice rose above the thin keening of the wind, the stamping and snorting of the horses. ‘“I am the Lord your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt.”’ He closed the book. ‘Hear the voice of the Lord.’
‘Amen,’ the men said.
Christiaan replaced the book in his saddlebag, put his hat back on his head and watched as the members of the commando followed suit.
They were granite men, features reddened by the cold, sidearms ready, implacable in their determination to hunt the killers down. Christiaan, like the rest of them, was confident they would do it. The night had brought more snow to the mountains and the convicts would have been unable to get out of the valley.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Let us ride.’
He wheeled his horse and led the column of men at a canter along the trail that wound through the valley and up into the mountains. Snow lay in frozen drifts in the gullies and quickly grew thicker as they climbed. For the first time they saw the footprints of the men they were pursuing but soon they came to fresh snow and the men’s tracks were wiped out.
Spurs to remote farms led off the main trail but Christiaan did not bother to check them. The convicts’ priority had to be to get over the mountains as quickly as possible. Once across the pass they would be safe. Fail and they would be doomed, whatever they did.
Perhaps they had crossed the pass before the snow had closed it, but he didn’t think so. On foot they would not have been able to make it before dark, and at night the temperature would have plummeted to well below freezing. To stay out in the open was to die; they would have been forced to hole up somewhere.
The question was where.
‘Elephant Cave,’ he said out loud, and his mouth grew tight in his cold face.
Every man and boy in the valley knew Elephant Cave. For the convicts it would be ideal: deep and warm enough for them to survive the worst blizzard, a stream to give them water. To the pursuers it had less to recommend it. The only way to get to it was along a narrow shelf with no cover at all and a drop of several hundred feet to one side. Yet there was no choice. The commando could not overnight on the mountain; try that in this weather and they would all be dead by morning. Yet snow in these mountains never lasted long. If they went back down the mountain, there was no guarantee the convicts would still be here by morning. No, open ground or not, they would have to go in at once, before it got too dark to see.
A frontal assault over five hundred yards with no cover, against five desperate men with rifles … A daunting prospect.
They rode on. The wind blew sharp enough to cut, the cold froze their breath about them and the clouds seemed almost to touch their heads.
It was late afternoon when they reached the place. They dismounted in the shelter of a rock face that concealed them from the cave as well as protecting them from the wind.
Christiaan turned to Hernus Klopper, his second-in-command.
‘Take the ten best shots,’ he said. ‘Spread them out on the slope of the mountain to cover us when we go in.’
Klopper nodded expressionlessly and turned to give the order.
‘Wait!’ Christiaan said, voice suddenly sharp.
A fragment of white came spinning out of the grey-bellied clouds. Another, then a third.
Snow.
Christiaan grinned and slapped Klopper on the shoulder. ‘Let’s wait a few minutes, man. Maybe we won’t need covering fire, after all.’
The snow grew thicker. The danger now was not rifle fire from the cave, but straying off the track and plunging down the side of the mountain into the tops of the pine trees three hundred feet below.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ Christiaan said. ‘Wait any longer, we won’t be able to see where we’re going.’
They formed up, rifles ready, breath steaming in the cold air. He took a deep breath and stepped out into the storm.
The wind seized him. A suffocating curtain of white snatched the breath from his lungs. Ice particles scoured his face, bringing blood from a dozen tiny cuts. The force of the gale made him stagger, feet groping fo
r the invisible path. Within seconds, his fingers, even within the stout leather gauntlets, were numb with cold. He turned his head to look behind him. The figure of the next man, Willem Meyer, loomed through the snow.
‘Hands and knees,’ he yelled, trying to raise his voice above the howling wind. ‘We’ll never make it, otherwise.’
Meyer’s beard and eyebrows were crusted with white. Dark eyes gleamed momentarily through the snow. He shouted something, the words swept away by the gale.
‘What?’
‘We’ll never make it at all in this.’
Christiaan shook his head even as he felt the wind trying to prise him from the narrow path. ‘We must. At least in this they won’t be able to see us. Without it they’d have picked us off like shooting ducks off a wall.’
He didn’t wait for further argument but turned, sank to his hands and knees and began to grope his way forward.
Nearer the ground it was easier. Easier to breathe, easier to hold his eyelids open against the cutting force of the gale. The outline of the path was a snow-covered scrawl across the slope. The snow soaked and chilled him, the rocks bruised his knees.
He shut his mind to pain, cold, fear.
Don’t think of five hundred yards, he told himself. That is too far. Rather think of one yard. Do that, then go on to the next.
His fingers groped. One knee moved. One hand. Again. And again. Inch by inch, yard by yard, minute by minute, he progressed. His groping hand found a large chunk of rock. He put his weight on it, felt it shift. It bounded away into oblivion, the noise of its fall swallowed by the wind. Despite the cold, sweat started beneath his leather jacket. He took a deep breath and went on.
The path was gone now, blanketed by snow. The world was reduced to a wilderness of howling white. Fingers, cheeks, even legs were numb. He had no idea how far he had come, could not even tell if the commando were following him or not. Yet he knew his men. They would be behind him still.
Slowly, painfully, he went on.
After what seemed hours, a shadow loomed out of the snow. He stopped, breath shuddering. He had reached the cave.
He waited until Willem Meyer emerged from the blizzard behind him. Christiaan gestured silently at the indistinct outline of the cave mouth twenty yards away. He brought his mouth close to Willem’s ear.
‘Where are the others?’
‘Behind me. I suppose.’
‘I’m going in. It won’t be easy but at least in this they probably won’t be expecting anyone. If we wait until it clears, they’ll spot us before we can get at them.’
Christiaan looked at his Mauser. It was saturated. He wouldn’t be able to rely on it. Never mind. He still had his revolver. And his knife.
Willem asked, ‘Can you see the path?’
‘No. But it must run straight ahead.’ He remembered the rock he had dislodged. Any obstacles would be buried in the snow. Loose stones, fallen rocks, uneven ground — any of them could throw them over the edge. The drop to the right was still there, steeper than ever at this point, he remembered.
Think about it too much, we’ll never move.
He got to his feet, feeling the precipice suck at him.
I’m not even sure I can run. One way to find out. ‘Let’s go.’
He was running, after a fashion. Staggering, knees stiff. He stumbled over a hidden rock and felt the world tip under him. Somehow regaining his balance, he ran on, the cave mouth looming now, and in the entrance …
… Men.
Breath harsh in his throat, Christiaan flung himself up the last ten yards of the path and into the cave.
A figure in the opening raised a rifle, pointing it at him. There was a crack, a wave of air slapped his ear, but he was inside the entrance before the man could fire again.
He did not try to fire his own rifle but seized it by the barrel and swung it horizontally with all his might. The man leapt back. The butt of the gun did not connect but Christiaan’s hand found the knife in his boot. Following up hard he drove it to its hilt in the man’s belly.
Before the man had even begun to fall, he had spun round to face the others, the bloodied blade ready in his hand. There were three, no, four other men. Two more rifles he could see. He charged them, brandishing the knife. They broke before him, panicking, and fled into the darkness of the cave at their backs.
He followed up hard. Another of the men turned and raised his rifle. He was only three yards away but three yards was too far to reach him and at that range the man, however panicky, could not miss. He flung himself sideways and felt the bullet smack the air.
Within the cave, the sound of the shot was shattering. Christiaan was on his feet again. Before the man with the rifle could fire a second time, he had flung himself at him. Again he felt the knife sink home. The man screamed and fell away, rifle clattering on the rocky floor.
The remaining men had gone to ground behind the rocks that littered the rear of the cave. Christiaan threw himself down behind another rock before the last rifle could fire on him. He put his knife to one side and drew his revolver. With his left hand he picked up a fragment of rock and tossed it underarm into the depths of the cave, his eyes alert for movement.
It clattered off the walls. A flicker behind one of the rocks. He fired at once and missed, the bullet screaming as it sprang off the rock. The echo of the shot reverberated, died.
Christiaan felt a presence at his back and turned his head. Gert Raas. ‘Where’s Willem?’
Face grim, Gert jerked his head at the cave entrance. ‘Back there.’
‘You mean …?’
‘Between the eyes.’
Rage smote Christiaan like a flail. A widow and two orphans to add to the butchers’ bill. And for what?
Without thinking, he leapt to his feet and charged deeper into the cave, Gert beside him.
‘No!’
The three men were on their feet, cowering, no fight left in them. A crash as the last rifle was thrown to the floor. The men backed away, hands in the air.
‘We give up, baas! Don’t kill us!’
Silence in the cave.
Christiaan covered them with his revolver. ‘Throw down your arms.’
A moment’s hesitation, then three knives and a revolver clattered to the ground.
‘That the lot?’
‘Yes.’ The man who had spoken before nodded eagerly. ‘That’s all, baas.’
Without turning his head, Christiaan said, ‘Search them.’ Gert came forward and searched the prisoners roughly.
The cave was filled with the men of the commando. Now the fighting’s over, Christiaan thought savagely, all of a sudden there’s no shortage of them.
A sudden exclamation. Gert had found another knife. The culprit cowered. Christiaan stepped forward and swung the barrel of the gun hard against the man’s temple. He dropped.
The remaining men had nothing, were squawking like chickens as they felt the weight of the commando’s eyes upon them. ‘Please, baas. Don’t kill us, baas. We won’t give no trouble.’
He eyed them coldly. Two men, two women, one child dead because of them. It could have been more. They’d had two shots at him. Only by God’s will had they missed. Out there, in the blizzard, the whole commando might have perished.
‘We won’t kill you,’ he said.
Not yet.
The snow had eased but it was too late to get off the mountain before dark. They spent the night in the cave and, in the morning, the sun shining and the sky a gentian blue over the white peaks, they made their way down into the valley.
Christiaan sent riders ahead to tell the people that the men who had killed the Wessels family had been captured. A message also to the Meyer farm. As soon as possible Christiaan would be calling on the widow himself; an unhappy task, yet necessary.
They made good time, but it was late afternoon when they got back to Oudekraal. Behind the house the mountain peaks gleamed in the setting sun yet, in the valley, shadows were gathering as the men rode i
n with their prisoners. They were tired at the end of two long days but proud that their mission had been accomplished. Their heads were up; some carried their rifles loose in their hands, barrels projecting over the pommels of their saddles. Their severe faces stared unsmiling over the heads of the crowd that had gathered to see justice done.
Most of the valley was there. Even some of the people from the outlying farms, men normally seen only at the monthly Nagmaal gathering, had come in, too.
The commando reined in before the house, the prisoners with their feet bound beneath the bellies of the horses that carried them.
Christiaan dismounted. Back straight, shoulders squared, he walked slowly up the steps to the stoep where his wife Sara waited to greet him. The children stood on either side of her, their hands clasped in hers. The lights of the house shone yellow in the gathering darkness.
Sara looked up at him. It was a formal business, welcoming the head of the house on his safe return, and she did not smile. At the back of her dark eyes there was something of a smile, perhaps, but for the man, not for the leader of the commando. Not for the crowd, either.
‘Thanks be to God you are safe home,’ she said, her voice raised for the crowd to hear.
‘Thanks be to God,’ he agreed gravely.
‘Amen,’ the crowd said.
Christiaan bent to greet the children, then straightened. ‘Take Anneliese indoors,’ he told his wife. ‘Stay with her.’
From here on it would be men’s business and she did not argue.
‘Deneys?’
‘Stays here.’
He waited until the door was closed behind them, then turned once again to face the crowd. In his hand was the book he had taken from his saddlebag, and when he spoke, his voice carried to every one of the men gathered on the open ground below him.
There were lighted torches among them. They fluttered in the wind, casting pools of darkness and yellow light upon the faces, the eyes and the barrels of the rifles. Above them the white peaks of the mountains caught the last rays of the sun amid the gathering dark.
