A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  ‘We’ll carry the diamonds in these pouches all the time,’ Baralong said, making holes and threading strips of hide through, knotting them and drawing them tight. He divided up the diamonds and threw a pouch to Harry.

  ‘In case they come, Harry,’ Baralong said.

  Harry put down the plates which he had been about to bring across to where Baralong was working. For a moment he had forgotten Frank’s spring leave. He must not do that again for now they were so very close to all that they both needed.

  He tied the pouch to his belt, and the two empty ones which Baralong also threw across to him. He lifted the plates again. The fat had congealed on the enamel and the potatoes were charred where they had lain on the ashes and he was not hungry but he knew that they must eat for they had much work to do before they could leave, before they could escape.

  The next day they took up boards from the loft, wrenching them up from the beams, bending the long, strong nails as they tore them free. They carried them to the dig and they both shovelled, both sieved and when their arms ached with the sideways motion they emptied the buckets on to the boards and sorted with a wooden scraper.

  When it rained the earth grew sticky and Harry’s back strained with the effort of lifting the shovel, but the water washed the earth from the diamonds and so they were easier to find. Baralong lifted his face to the rain and grinned. ‘The Orange river will be filling up with this rainfall, Harry. If they come the river will take a boat now. It would not have done before. Spring is a good time.’

  ‘It’s not spring yet,’ Harry grunted but he knew that in six weeks it would be.

  They worked all the daylight hours for the next three weeks, stopping to shoot a dassie or a springbok, stopping every half-hour to check that there were no riders coming past the kopje though Harry felt they were safe until the spring. When they each had one full pouch they had a day of rest and sat in the house as the rain came down heavy for once and drank the brandy which Harry had saved for the day they found their fortune.

  ‘How we sell stones?’ Baralong asked. ‘Dealers here, in South Africa, report us for not using cartel, for bad dealing.’

  Harry threw across the flask. ‘Have a little, my friend,’ he said and he knew his voice was slurred. He had not been drunk since Johannesburg.

  ‘As to that problem’, he said, wagging his finger at Baralong who took a long swallow at the brandy before screwing on the top and tossing it back to Harry. ‘We shall go to Antwerp. I have come across a name while I’ve been out here. It belongs to someone who likes fine white diamonds and is not fussy where they come from. The slump is over and quality is always desirable anyway, Baralong.’

  He stood up and moved unsteadily to the window, lifting back the mealie bag one inch and peering out but he knew there was no one there because the dog had not barked. He just liked to make sure from time to time. Did other people feel fear as he did? He wanted to ask Baralong, but how could he, for if his friend did not fear as he did then he could not bear the truth.

  ‘Yes,’ he repeated, dropping the mealie bag and turning. ‘We shall go to Antwerp and then I shall take you to my home. You will be safe there, Baralong.’

  Baralong was sitting cross-legged, his arms loose on his knees, his head back against his saddle. The fireplace was blackened and the coals were almost dead.

  ‘No, I not come with you. I stay.’

  Harry did not move towards Baralong but stood leaning against the wall as he had been doing. The candle’s glow did not reach into the corners of the room; there was just Baralong in its circle of light. It seemed very quiet suddenly and Harry could not find the words to say that he could not bear the thought of being without his friend for he had never known anyone as he knew this man, anyone that is except for Hannah.

  ‘Why must you stay?’ was all he said but he wanted to shout at him. Don’t stay, I need a friend I love. He still did not move but the dog did. She pricked up her ears and looked at him. Did she sense the pain behind the words?

  ‘There much to do in South Africa. They take the rights of my people in the Cape too. Now, things get worse everywhere. In Cape Town are natives who see this, who come together to stop it. I want be with them.’

  Baralong’s head was tilted back, his eyes were shut. ‘I have love for you, my friend,’ Baralong said, ‘but I have love for country too.’

  Harry could still not say to Baralong the words which he was forming in his head and so he just nodded. ‘Yes, I can see that you would feel that you must stay. I will go to Holland, Baralong, and send you back your money.’

  He moved back to sit opposite, resting against his saddle now, hoping that his face was in shade and that night they finished the brandy and the next day began work late. They rode their horses down to the sloot and dug and sieved again and it was warmer today.

  By late afternoon they had found one of the largest diamonds Harry had ever seen. It was about seven carats and lay heavy in his hand. They had half-filled a pouch with smaller ones and Baralong said that they must put this in the last pouch on its own, for it was of almost too great a value to be borne.

  They did not hear the dog barking until it was almost too late and then Harry stopped as he was pulling the pouch tight and held out his hand to Baralong. They stood quite still as they listened and Harry felt cold and he could see that his hand had begun to shake. They eased their way slowly up the bank that had been formed as they dug but pressed themselves in close. Harry could smell the earth, so close to his face.

  The men were at the house, four of them on horses and Harry saw Frank as he flicked his cigarette outwards on to the ground.

  ‘Our guns by the rise,’ Baralong whispered. They would be seen if they moved to fetch them and Harry was glad for he was sick of violence.

  ‘If the dog doesn’t come towards us, maybe we’ll be all right,’ Harry said, feeling the sand beneath his hands and in his nails. As he talked it puffed up into his face. He could still smell it, see it, each minute grain.

  The horses were tethered in the sloot, would they be seen from the house? Harry dug his fingers in deep and lay flat against the rising ground. He could only hear the breath in his throat. There was no more barking from the dog. Please God, let it stay that way. He looked again, carefully, and saw Frank pat and stroke it and then it barked, loudly and turned towards the sloot bounding towards its masters. Harry felt the shaking in his hands and saw the rod which he had held years ago, heard his father’s voice, so vicious. You took the rod too far back, the line wasn’t damn well straight. He dragged his mind back. For God’s sake, there was no time for that. He took Baralong’s arm. ‘Get the horses, ride for the bloody river. It’s all we can do. Ride for the Orange. There are trees, houses and it will be dark before we get there.’ His voice was jagged as he ran but he heard Baralong with him, slipping as he was on the earth and pebbles.

  He snatched at the reins, scrambling into the saddle and dug his heels into Kim, turning, checking that Baralong was close. He heard the men shouting, saw Frank leap into his saddle, saw him draw his rifle from near his bedroll.

  They did not stir up sand as they rode, for the rain had been heavy yesterday. Their horses were away quickly, and he could hear and feel the thudding of their hoofs and the barking of the dog and soon they were clear of the property and he did not even turn for one last look. Were they following? He didn’t know but was glad that the sand was wet and there would be no dust for the men to follow. He dug his heels into Kim.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ he yelled, hearing Baralong with him.

  But because there was no dust kicked there was a clear view for the marksman as he fired. As he galloped past a thorn bush Harry felt a blow in his back, a thud as though he had been hit by the flat of a shovel, the pain did not come until a few minutes later and then it tore and wrenched at his body. They rode on, not stopping, and after three hours the men were still after them but not quite so close for their horses were tired after their ride across the veld. />
  Kim was sweating now, Harry could see it, stained dark at the base of his neck beneath his mane. It would be wet, and his lips were dry. He wanted to rest his head on that strong neck, lay his mouth against the smooth wetness. Yes, that’s what he would do and then maybe the pain would ease, but with each galloped stride it jerked again through his body. Why was he riding like this? He would stop. It was absurd. He would stop arid sit. His father must let him rest for a moment. He would ask him. He turned and it was not his father but Baralong and he was glad. Baralong came close to him now and he saw that the sun was going down and soon it would be dark. Please God, soon it would be dark, for now he remembered why he could not stop.

  ‘Can you ride more, Harry,’ Baralong said close to him and Harry nodded.

  I’m fine, he wanted to say, but he could not open his mouth for if he did he was afraid that he would scream. He wanted to turn his head but he could not bear the thought of any more movement.

  Baralong looked though and Harry could hear his panting as he said, ‘We make it to river but they close now. It getting dark, Harry, and it not far. Hang on. Hang on, my friend.’

  Harry gripped the reins and the saddle too and his back felt on fire and he wanted to fall from his horse and lie on the ground where it was still. But he heard the gun again and felt the fear and then there were boys’ voices and the bag was heavy on his shoulder, though he had emptied the paper long ago.

  The boys were close as he ran down the hill, his legs were heavy and his breath hurt in his chest and he turned and saw Arthur, his pale hair close but not close enough. Or was he? He must try harder, he must win. Just this once he must beat Arthur. His father would be pleased, and so he ran on again and there was white paper behind and about him, blowing in his face, blurring his vision. But there was the finishing line, he could see it and the people cheering. Would he make it? But he was too tired, they were too close and he was alone.

  But then he heard his friend. ‘There’s the river, Harry.’

  He looked but it was dark and then he saw it, gleaming like a ribbon in the moonlight and there was Hannah over by the tree, by the rope. But he had left his rope behind, with his letters. He’d have to tell his friend Baralong that they would have to go back for the rope. But his horse was slithering down the bank now into the water and he watched as Baralong reached and took the reins.

  ‘Get down, Harry. Into the water.’ It was an order, and Harry stroked the sleek sweated neck of Kim and lifted his leg, which was too heavy, over and into the water. He watched as Baralong came wading to his side, the reins of the horses in his hand. It was cold, so cold as they stood there, but only up to their knees and he was shaking again, but this time throughout the length of his body.

  ‘We send off horses, they follow those. We swim, float, find boat but get away, we must get away or they kill us.’

  Harry knew they would for he and his friend had broken the rules. He had loved a painting done by his sister and so they would kill him, drown him and so he would tear it up and then he could lift himself from the water.

  He told Baralong but his friend took his arm and pulled him and so he went with him and this time the water did not surge into his face as it had once done, it did not cut the breath from his body and there were arms round him, holding him up as the water cooled his back. He was not alone any more.

  ‘Harry.’ Baralong’s voice was a whisper. ‘Let me take you. Trust me. Float, say nothing for they ride along bank.’

  Harry did not know who was riding along the bank because all his friends were laughing at the picture his sister had drawn, but he did as he was told because it was his friend who told him.

  ‘I have love for you also, Baralong, my friend, and I will miss you,’ he whispered into the dark night. He looked up into the sky, floating clear of the pain, seeing Uncle Simon and Hannah as they walked across the moor. Was he going to die out here as well?

  18

  Hannah looked out at the endless fog which swirled dark and yellow over the rhododendrons and the roses which hung limp and discoloured from their stems. They would have to prune them next week when September 1913 gave way to October. There was a smell of burning on the air and she shut the window. Frances was walking the dog and would be coughing into her cashmere scarf when she returned but for now she wasn’t here and so there should have been a relief from the tension which had been growing between them as the militancy of the suffragettes escalated and filled the newspapers, the prisons and the air with smoke and had done since January when the Speaker had ruled that no women’s suffrage amendment could be added to the current Reform Bill.

  Hannah drew the curtains and turned to face the room. But there had been a different tension here this afternoon. The fire was bright in the grate after the matt colour of the garden. The teapot was empty now on the table near her chair; the scone on Esther’s plate was half-eaten, the once melted butter lay dark yellow where it had reset on the plate. Her gold-rimmed cup and saucer lay next to the crumpled napkin. Yes, a different tension. Hannah looked away, to the books which gleamed around the desk and the silver paper-knife which shone in the light of the gas lamp, cold against the dull, stained paper of the blotter. She moved towards it, picking it up, feeling its weight, its smooth coolness, but her own anger was still burning inside, the air still felt as though it would suffocate her.

  Esther had just left, her cloak pulled over her head, droplets of mist forming on the fur edging as soon as she stepped on to the path. She remembered Esther’s words, her thin smile.

  Thank you so much, darling, for the tea. So kind. And remember, Hannah, you owe it to him, she had said and there had been a frown on her forehead, a coldness in the deep violet of her eyes. Hannah put down the knife. Yes, she knew she did. It was September 1913, and Arthur was still waiting for her acceptance of his proposal.

  She turned away from books, so many, too many to ever read. There was no time. Couldn’t Arthur understand that? There was no time to read, no time for marriage. Did he never listen to her? Couldn’t he understand that after Asquith had dismissed the possibility of women’s franchise as an improbable hypothesis last year during the second reading of the Reform Bill there had been so much more to do and then there had been no ruling over the amendment. She threw the knife down on to the desk. The vote was as far away as ever.

  She moved again to the window, lifting the curtain, wiping away the condensation, but she could see nothing. Where was Frances? Where was she? Perhaps they could talk again as they had once been able to. Impatience was making her back tense and her shoulders rigid.

  Did marriage and the thought of it always make you feel as though you were dying in thin air, trapped by unseen bars but strong and immoveable none the less? Why did Arthur crowd so closely, why did Esther remind her of duty? Why couldn’t they leave her in peace to live her life? She wanted to go to Joe, to talk to him, tell him, see his hands, so still and strong. He would understand but somehow she could not speak to him of Arthur, of marriage, and he would only say of her suffrage work that the choice was hers.

  She dropped the curtain and stood by the fire, feeling its warmth on her face and her hands. She reached out and gripped the mantelshelf. The wood was warm and smooth and dark. It was solid and the same today as it had been yesterday. She gripped it harder. She wished that she was solid, that there was no room for thoughts and feelings and fear and despair and at that word she looked up into the mirror which hung above the clock.

  For there was such despair in her, such darkness, such conflict and she did not understand herself any longer. She was tired but there had been nothing to tax her this year. She had stayed in the headquarters of their suffrage group. She had painted posters, sorted leaflets, made tea. She had taught her class in school and it was a good class. She and Frances were pleased with the girls. She had extended the Sunday school to take in a kindergarten for children too. It had been an easy year because she had not joined in the arson campaign of the suffragettes,
yet. She had not slashed paintings of beauty in art galleries, not burnt the homes of Cabinet Ministers or derelict churches or halls.

  No, she had done none of these things and today Esther had asked why, her voice edged with contempt, swiftly replaced by an excitement which filled not just her voice but her eyes as well as she had spoken of the thrill of it all, the sheer joy of replacing the boredom of her life with destructive actions which daily filled the newspapers for all to see; and still her family did not know and that appeared to Hannah to be part of the attraction of it all. What a child Esther still was. A dangerous selfish child but so far all this activity had kept her faithful to Harry and so she should not object.

  Hannah looked now into the mirror. And neither should she be so tired. Why were her eyes tight and set deep in her face, why were there lines around her mouth? Why was there such despair? She gripped the wood more tightly still. The heat from the fire was too hot on her wrist but she did not move.

  She thought of the satisfaction which always burned on her cousin’s face when she returned with empty paraffin cans, of the penknife which she had borrowed from her brother George’s drawer and which was covered now with cracked oil paint. She thought of how there had been no answering exhilaration in her, no feeling of moving forwards just distaste for the violence, the destruction, the criticism of the movement which was now being voiced. The criticism that asked whether women deserved the vote. But the Government would not listen, and they must be made to, mustn’t they?

  Hannah heard the front door and then the sitting-room door but she didn’t want to turn because she was working her way at last towards something which she could not yet see clearly but which was forming out of her confusion. It was too important to lose; she must grasp and face it for it was the root of her despair and the knowledge was close now.