Keepers of the House

by JH Fletcher

  Christiaan opened the book.

  ‘“The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness,”’ he read, and his deep voice rolled over the people, filling the place where they stood. ‘“Prepare ye the way of the Lord. Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.”’

  He closed the book.

  ‘Bring them forward.’

  Full dark, now. Rifles ready, four of the commando led the prisoners forward and turned them to face the crowd. No one moved or spoke and the light from the flames ebbed and flowed over them, as fluid as water.

  ‘See the men we have brought back to you,’ Christiaan said. ‘Sentenced to prison for their crimes. Escaped. They came into the valley, not to seek refuge. Not as an escape route to the interior. They came to steal. And to kill.’

  The crowd stirred.

  ‘People are dead who would otherwise be alive. Women and children mourn who would otherwise have been glad. These men’ — he thrust out his hand — ‘broke into the Wessels’s farm. They stole food. Weapons. Ammunition. But they were not content with that. One by one, they killed the members of the family and their maid servant. They could have tied them, stolen what they wanted and gone. They chose to kill them instead. Four deaths. For nothing. Yesterday, when we caught up with them, they fired on us. Now Willem Meyer is also dead. His wife is left a widow, his two small children fatherless. People of our community. People who had the right to look to us for their security but did not find it.’

  The crowd murmured louder and the sound was ugly.

  ‘“Prepare ye the way of the Lord,”’ Christiaan quoted. ‘“Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.”’ He raised his voice. His clenched fist smote the air. ‘Is this how we make God’s highway straight in the desert? To let such as these kill the innocent? Is this how we discharge our responsibility to our flock? Who among us can hope to stand before the Judgement and say he is innocent when the blood of the victims cries unavenged from the ground?’

  Silence, as though the valley held its breath. Then:

  ‘They shall be punished,’ Christiaan said.

  ‘Yes,’ the crowd shouted back at him. ‘Let them be punished.’

  ‘Does anyone disagree?’

  Silence.

  It was cold now as the frost came down. The mountains were hidden, without even the faintest glimmer of light from the snow. Behind the house the shape of the mountain loomed black. The torches streamed flame and the eyes of the men made deep holes in the pallor of their faces. Shadows flew like bats against the walls of the house and the breath of the people hung silver in the air about their heads. And everywhere the mutter and murmur, the occasional shout, the crowd angry at the bound men and what they had done.

  Christiaan said, ‘We can keep them safe until the snow is clear from the mountain. We can feed them while they sleep easy at our expense. Keep men from their work to guard them. Then we can return them to the prison in Cape Town or hand them over to the authorities in Stellenbosch, where they will be hanged for what they have done.’ Pause. ‘Or we can deal with them ourselves. Now.’

  ‘Deal with them ourselves,’ the crowd cried.

  What a clamour of protest from the bound men! They threw themselves about on their horses, screaming and shouting, knowing the decision meant death.

  Christiaan’s voice overrode them. ‘Take them from here and do with them as you will. But remember, you are doing God’s work. Therefore let it be quick, without unnecessary pain. And if it is wrong, I shall answer to God for it.’

  His hands dropped and his shoulders. He turned and went to his son and crouched down before him, holding the little chin in his strong hand.

  ‘Remember today,’ he said, and his voice was soft, his words for the boy and not for the crowd. ‘This is what it means to be master of Oudekraal. One day you will be the one to lead them. It is the place God has given you, and you will have to do it. Put your faith in God and his Book. Then all will be well with you and the people you lead.’

  Deneys’s eyes were wide in his pale face. ‘Will the people kill them?’

  ‘Yes, my son. The people will kill them. Not out of anger or hatred, but for what they have done.’ He straightened. ‘You will remember this night.’ An instruction, not a question.

  He took his son’s hand and went with him into the house, walking as a man does who carries a great weight upon him. The door shut behind them, leaving a silence among the crowd as though the people were asleep. With the bang of the door they woke, looking about them and at each other in a dazed, puzzled way. Quietly, without fuss or discussion, they took the men, still protesting and screeching, and led them away into the darkness.

  There were lights on the slopes of the mountain, too far for sound, and, after a while, the lights went out and darkness lay over all.

  SEVEN

  Elizabeth Grant was not a tall woman. She had the bluest eyes that Deneys Wolmarans had ever seen but it was her hair that he noticed first: as gold as wheat and so heavy that he thought how it would weigh in his hands when he lifted it. Not that there was any question of anything like that when he first met her, of course.

  In those days there was no chapel in the valley. The burghers used to come in once a month from all the outlying places to hold Nagmaal, or Holy Communion as they called it in English, and the dominee travelled from Stellenbosch to conduct the service.

  Deneys’s father had set aside a big field especially for the purpose. In his time he never permitted it to be used for anything else, because it was a place dedicated to God. After the Anglo-Boer war that practice fell away, like so many others. The Nagmaalvlakte, or Communion Field, as they called it, became covered in vines, as were the lanes, white with summer dust, along which the burghers had brought their wagons.

  The women used to pick the wild flowers from the verges and weave them into garlands for the wagons and the mules. Some of the young girls wore flowers in the bonnets they used to cover their hair, although not when they were going to Nagmaal, in case people should accuse them of vanity.

  Some of those old-timers were very hot on things like vanity and Thou Shalt Nots, quick to shout about sacrilege and blasphemy and all such matters, but neither Deneys nor his father could see any harm in it. It was all innocence and lovely to see, although after the war nobody did that any more either. They had heard that some churches used flowers and there were those who spoke against that, too, but to Deneys it always seemed a good custom. Almighty God created the flowers of the veld as he created all things, and to bring them into his presence as an act of worship — how could there be anything wrong in that?

  People came from all over the valley and even further, from places deep in the mountains. Some of the farms were very remote and the owners would be on the road for two days or even longer to come to the Nagmaal celebration. Not that distance stopped them. They always came, except perhaps in winter when the snow was too thick to get through.

  It was not just for the service. They came because it was the one chance they had to meet their neighbours and find out what was going on in the world, or as much of the world as they cared about.

  The farmers used to outspan their mules for two or three days. There was no trading on the Sabbath, of course, but the next day was different. The farms were self-sufficient in most things, but not in powder or the lead they needed to make bullets, nor in coffee and such things as spectacles for those whose eyes were aging along with the rest of them. Those they had to buy and the Nagmaal gathering was the place to do it. People brought livestock with them, too, and produce, and a fair bit of trading took place before the farmers inspanned their mules and headed back once more into the mountains.

  Andrew Grant had a farm at the far end of the valley. The Grants had never been rich but farmed their land well, followed the customs of their neighbours and generally lived in a civilised way. Andrew Grant was from Scotland, a settler who had come to the country twenty years before. He had married an Afrikaans woman, and his o
nly child Elizabeth had been brought up according to Afrikaner custom, but to the people living in the valley both he and his daughter were English and would be so until they died.

  When Deneys was nineteen, the Grants came to Nagmaal as usual. Deneys was carrying out some errand or other for his father. He came past the place where the women from the wagons were drawing water for the cooking and came face to face with the seventeen-year-old Elizabeth Grant and fell in love with her there and then.

  Afterwards Deneys always claimed it was that wonderful wheat-coloured hair that first drew his eye, but that was impossible. All the women wore big cloth kappies with brims that came down over their faces to protect them from the sun and the eyes of those who should not have been looking, and their hair was tucked up out of sight. Anyway, whatever he saw or fancied he saw, that was Deneys hooked and it appeared Elizabeth was in the same state, because later she told him so herself.

  That same day, not one hour later, Deneys went to his father in the little room that was used as an office at Oudekraal and told him he intended to marry Elizabeth Grant.

  Christiaan Wolmarans came to his feet, big fists bunched, expression incredulous.

  ‘Elizabeth Grant? You will do no such thing!’

  Deneys quailed but fought to conceal his fear. ‘Please, father …’

  ‘Andrew Grant is a nobody. He has nothing but his farm. He —’

  ‘That’s all we have.’

  ‘Oudekraal is the biggest and richest property in the valley. Grant has a few acres at Doornbosch. There’s no comparison and you know it.’

  ‘I would not be marrying her for the farm.’

  ‘You won’t be marrying her at all.’ The bright blue eyes dug into him, sharp as porcupine quills. ‘When did you meet her?’

  Deneys avoided his father’s gaze. ‘Today.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  Deneys shook his head. ‘No.’

  Christiaan let his relief show. Speaking to a girl without permission could cause serious trouble. ‘Thank God for that.’

  He prowled to the window and looked out. Sunlight lay like honey on the leaves of the oak trees. The noise of the people in the Nagmaalvlakte came faintly to them. Christiaan turned, shoulders heavy beneath his light shirt, and stared at his son.

  ‘You don’t know her. You never set eyes on her until today. You haven’t spoken to her and now you’ve decided to marry her. Is that what you’re saying?’

  Deneys tried to stiffen knees like jelly. ‘Yes.’

  Christiaan turned back to his desk and sat down. ‘Out of the question,’ he said dismissively. He picked up his pen; the discussion was over.

  No, Deneys thought. I won’t let him send me away like a … like a servant. He willed confidence into his voice. ‘Why?’

  Christiaan lifted his head and stared at him. ‘Why what?’

  Half expecting his father to order him from the room, Deneys said, ‘Why is it out of the question for me to marry Elizabeth Grant?’

  ‘I have just told you. The Grants are nobodies. They have no money —’

  ‘Doornbosch is a good farm —’

  ‘It’ll never amount to anything. Andrew Grant does his best, but it’s too small. It’s too high for grapes and too far from Oudekraal.’

  Deneys remembered his glimpse of Elizabeth, her slight body stooped to lift the water pail, her blue eyes looking up at him from beneath her cloth hat. Frustration moved like heat through him. Why did these old people think only of money? There were other considerations in life.

  ‘That’s not the only problem,’ Christiaan said. ‘Elizabeth is English.’

  Deneys forced an angry laugh. ‘That’s ridiculous —’

  ‘Her father’s from Scotland.’

  ‘Her mother’s from Stellenbosch. Elizabeth was born here, for heaven’s sake! She comes to Nagmaal with the rest of us. She’s no more English than I am!’

  ‘That’s not how people around here see it. You live in a community, you have to abide by its rules.’

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘I am master of Oudekraal.’

  His father’s arrogance infuriated him. The fact that it was unconscious made it worse.

  ‘One day I shall be master, too,’ Deneys said, greatly daring.

  ‘God willing. Which is why the woman you marry must be someone the valley will accept.’

  ‘If you’re master, surely people have to do what you tell them?’

  ‘People don’t like being told. The trick is to get them to do what you want without telling them. Let them think it’s their idea, that’s the secret.’

  ‘You mean I should be persuading you it’s your idea that I should marry Elizabeth Grant?’

  Christiaan laughed. He leant back in his chair and studied his son, tapping his teeth with the end of the pen. ‘I’ll tell you what I will do.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Eagerly. Oh please, father, please …

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Deneys’s face fell. ‘Is that all?’

  His father raised his eyebrows. ‘Many would say I’m foolish to promise as much.’

  ‘How much time will you need?’

  Christiaan was not to be pressed on this or anything. ‘As long as it takes. Now let me get on with my work. And remember, stay clear of Elizabeth Grant. For the time being, anyway.’

  Alone in the office once more, Christiaan Wolmarans laid his pen on the desk and sat back in his chair.

  Well, now.

  He had been expecting something of the sort for some time. Deneys was nearly twenty. Anneliese, his other child, had married at sixteen, five years before, and gone off with her husband to his farm near Lydenburg in the Transvaal Republic. Time now, for Deneys, too, to be thinking of marrying and settling down.

  To the right woman, of course.

  He would have reacted with fury whoever Deneys had mentioned. Fathers, not sons, decided marriages, and it was as well to remind him of the fact. Strange, though, that he should have chosen Elizabeth Grant. Christiaan had thought about her himself more than once.

  He thought about her now.

  It was true that the valley wouldn’t like Oudekraal wedded to an outsider, but Deneys was right. The girl was Dutch in everything but name and blood. Both were important, of course, but less so than custom or language. People would soon forget her background once they were used to the idea.

  As for her lack of fortune … It would be a problem whomever Deneys married. Apart from himself, there were only three large landowners in the valley. The van Rensburg girls were married already. The Brands had no daughters. The only possibility was Hernus Klopper, who had a niece of the right age and had hinted, more than once, about a possible link between the families, but Klopper was a slimmerd, a sly fox. He wanted Deneys in his family because that would bring him closer to Oudekraal. That was his real target, and Christiaan would go to war to stop him having it.

  Christiaan selected a cheroot from the pottery jar on his desk and leant back, blowing a thin stream of fragrant smoke into the air. One thing in Elizabeth’s favour was the English blood he had allowed Deneys to think he despised so much. He didn’t despise it at all. The Wolmarans had English blood themselves — much diluted, certainly, but there. Perhaps the time had come to strengthen it a little.

  There was trouble coming up-country. Sooner or later the Boer Republics and the British Empire were going to war. The Boers had no chance. They were tough and determined, but could muster at most forty thousand men. The Empire had ten times as many. Twenty-five years earlier, the Confederate States of America had shown the world that determination alone could never win against such odds.

  What would the Cape burghers do? Many had family up north, but Christiaan thought the majority would stay neutral. They had too much to lose to get involved in lost causes. He certainly had no intention of getting involved himself. His fighting days were over. He had never been an admirer of Paul Kruger, in any case. No, he would stay at home
and mind the farm, whatever happened. All the same, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for the family to strengthen its English links, just in case.

  He smiled around the cheroot, eyes fixed contemplatively on the smoke swirling in the air above him. Deneys had been plucky enough about it. Impetuous, too. How long had it taken him to make up his mind after seeing the girl? Not even an hour. But that was Deneys all over, to make up his mind and act without further thought.

  At least he had the guts to stand up to me, Christiaan thought. Facing my disapproval, not realising I’d planned the whole thing.

  What had he told Deneys?

  The trick is to get them to do what you want without telling them.

  There was no reason for Deneys ever to know that he had sent him on that errand to Grant’s wagon on purpose. Let him believe it had all been his own idea. He stood up, stretching, and stubbed out his cheroot. Outside the window the sound of voices was dying down. Nagmaal was over. He would have a word with Andrew Grant before he went back to his farm.

  Two months later, the betrothal was announced of Deneys Wolmarans and Elizabeth Grant. The news created quite a stir.

  Briton and Afrikaner kept themselves apart from each other. In the Cape, passions ran a good deal lower than in the independent nations of the Transvaal and the Free State. The two races had lived side by side for three-quarters of a century and had grown accustomed to each other. Still, the idea of a Wolmarans marrying an uitlander, particularly one who was not wealthy, created a lot of ill-feeling.

  Elizabeth Grant might have been a Hottentot, the way people talked.

  Hernus Klopper was full of it, muttering about slaps in the face to the leading families in the valley and people marrying beneath them. Sour looks all round.

  Christiaan Wolmarans didn’t give a damn about sour looks but in a little while there was sour talk, too, of people maybe having to get married in a hurry, and that was different.