by Wilbur Smith
‘The Minister of Finance is here, and the Minister of Agriculture is our host – this is his farm. One of the biggest in the Free State.’
‘I am impressed.’
‘Yes,’ Manfred nodded. ‘I think you will be.’ He stared hard at Shasa. ‘Is it not strange how you and I seem doomed always to confront each other?’
‘It had crossed my mind,’ Shasa admitted.
‘Do you think there is some reason for it – something of which we are unaware?’ Manfred insisted, and Shasa shrugged.
‘I shouldn’t think so – coincidence only.’ The reply seemed to disappoint Manfred.
‘Has your mother never spoken about me?’
Shasa looked startled. ‘My mother! Good Lord, I don’t think so. She may have mentioned you casually — why do you ask?’
Manfred seemed not to have heard, he looked ahead. ‘There is the homestead,’ he said, with a finality that closed the subject.
The track breasted the rim of a shallow valley and the homestead nestled below them. Here the water must be near the surface for the pasturage was lush and green and the skeletal steel towers of a dozen windmills were scattered down the valley. A plantation of eucalyptus trees surrounded the homestead, and beyond it stood substantial outbuildings, all freshly painted and in good repair. Twenty or more brand-new tractors were lined up before one of the long garages, and there were flocks of fat sheep on the pastures. The plain beyond the homestead reaching almost to the horizon was already ploughed, thousands of acres of chocolate loam ready for sowing with maize seed. This was the heart land of Afrikanerdom, this was where the support of the National Party was solid and unwavering, and it was the reason why under the Nationalists the electoral areas had been re-demarcated to swing the centres of power away from the urban concentrations of population to favour these rural constituencies. That was why the Nationalists would stay in power for ever, and Shasa grimaced sourly. Immediately Manfred glanced at him, but Shasa offered no explanation and they drove down to the homestead and parked in the farm yard.
There were a dozen men sitting at the long yellow-wood kitchen table, smoking and drinking coffee and chatting while the women hovered in attendance. The men rose to welcome Shasa and he went down the table shaking hands with each of them and exchanging polite, if not effusive greetings.
Shasa knew every one of them. He had faced all of them across the floor of the House and had lashed most of them with his tongue, and in return had been attacked and vilified by each of them, but now they made room for him at the table and the hostess poured strong black coffee for him and placed a dish of sweet cakes and hard-baked rusks in front of him. They all treated him with that innate courtesy and hospitality that is the hallmark of the Afrikaner. Though they were dressed in rough hunting clothing and pretended to be bluff and simple farmers, they were in reality a group of shrewd and adroit politicians, amongst the richest and most powerful men in the land.
Shasa spoke their language perfectly, understood the most heavily veiled references and laughed at their private jokes, but he was not one of them. He was the rooinek, the traditional enemy, and subtly they had closed their ranks against him.
When he had drunk his coffee his host, the Minister of Agriculture, told him, ‘I will show you to your room. You will want to change and unpack your rifle. We will hunt as soon as it is cooler.’
A little after four o’clock, they set out in a procession of pick-up trucks, the elder, more important men riding in the cabs while the others stood in the open backs of the trucks. The cavalcade climbed out of the valley, skirted the ploughed lands and then sped out across the plains towards a line of low hills on the horizon.
They saw game now, small herds of springbok far out on the plain like a fine dusting of cinnamon powder on the pale earth, but the trucks raced on, slowing only as they reached the foot of the rocky hills. The lead truck stopped for a moment and two of the hunters jumped down and scrambled into a shallow donga.
‘Good luck! Shoot straight,’ they called to them as they passed and a few hundred yards further the convoy stopped again to let another pair take up their positions.
Within half an hour all of the huntsmen had been hidden in an irregular extended line below the ragged range of hills. Manfred De La Rey and Shasa had been placed together in a cluster of broken grey rock, and they squatted down to wait with their rifles across their laps, staring out across the flats that were speckled with darker scrub.
The trucks, driven by the teenage sons of their host, headed out in a wide circle until they were merely specks against the pale glare of the horizon, each marked by the ostrich feather of dust it drew behind it. Then they turned back towards the hills, travelling more slowly, not much above walking pace, as they began to move the scattered herds of antelope ahead of them.
Shasa and Manfred had almost an hour to wait for the driven game to come within rifle shot, and they chatted in a desultory, seemingly aimless manner, at first touching only lightly on politics, but rather discussing their host, the Minister of Agriculture, and the other guests. Then quite subtly Manfred changed the direction of their talk and remarked on how little real difference existed between the policies and aspirations of the governing National Party and Shasa’s own Opposition United Party.
‘If you examine it carefully, our differences are only those of style and degree. We both want to keep South Africa safe for the white man and for European civilization. We both know that for all of us apartheid is a matter of life and death. Without it we will all drown in the black sea. Since the death of Smuts, your party has moved sharply towards our own thinking, and the leftists and liberals have begun to split away from you.’
Shasa was noncommittal, but the point was apt and painful. There were deep cracks appearing in his own party, and every day it became more apparent that they would never again form the government of this land. However, he was intrigued to know where Manfred De La Rey was leading. He had learned never to underestimate his adversary, and he sensed that he was being artfully prepared for the true purpose of this invitation. It was quite obvious that their host had manoeuvred to place them together, and that every other member of the party was privy to the business afoot. Shasa spoke little, conceding nothing, and waited with rising anticipation for the lurking beast to reveal its shape.
‘You know that we have entrenched the language and culture of the English-speaking South Africans. There will never be any attempt to erode those rights – we look upon all English speakers of good will who consider themselves South Africans first as our brothers. Our destinies are linked with chains of steel—’ Manfred broke off, and lifted his binoculars to his eyes. ‘They are moving in closer now,’ he murmured. ‘We had better get ready.’ He lowered the binoculars and smiled carefully at Shasa. ‘I have heard that you shoot well. I look forward to a demonstration.’
Shasa was disappointed. He had wanted to know where the carefully rehearsed recital had been heading, but now he hid his impatience behind that easy smile of his and opened the breech of the rifle across his lap.
‘You are right in one thing, Minister,’ he said. ‘We are linked together with chains of steel. Let us hope the weight of them doesn’t draw us all under.’ He saw a strange flash in those topaz yellow eyes, of anger or triumph, he was not certain, and it lasted only an instant.
‘I will fire only on a line from dead ahead towards the right,’ Manfred said. ‘You only in an arc to the left. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ Shasa nodded, although he felt a prickle of irritation at being out-manoeuvred so soon and so easily. Manfred had carefully placed himself to cover the right flank, the natural side for a right-handed marksman to swing.
‘You will need the advantage,’ Shasa thought grimly and asked aloud, ‘I hear you also are a fine shot. What about a small wager on the bag?’
‘I do not gamble,’ Manfred replied easily. ‘That is a device of the devil, but I will count the bag with interest,’ and Shasa was reminded of just h
ow puritanical was the extreme Calvinism that Manfred De La Rey practised.
Carefully Shasa loaded his rifle. He had hand-loaded his own cartridges for he never trusted mass-produced factory ammunition. The shiny brass cases were filled with a charge of Norma powder that would drive the Nosler Partition bullet at well over three thousand feet a second. The special construction of the bullet would ensure that it mushroomed perfectly on impact.
He worked the bolt and then raised the weapon to his shoulder and used the telescopic sight to scan the plain. The pick-up trucks were less than a mile away, gently weaving back and forth, to prevent the herds breaking back, keeping them moving slowly down towards the line of hills and the hunters hidden below them. Shasa blinked his eye rapidly to clear his vision, and he could make out each individual animal in the herds of antelope trotting ahead of the vehicles.
They were light as smoke, and they rippled like cloud shadow across the plain. Trotting daintily with heads held high and with their horns shaped like perfect miniature lyres, they were graceful and indescribably lovely.
Without stereoscopic vision Shasa had difficulty in judging distance, but he had developed the knack of defining relative size and added to this a kind of sixth sense that enabled him to pilot an aircraft, strike a polo ball, or shoot as well as any fully sighted person.
The nearest of the approaching antelope were almost at extreme range when there was a crackle of rifle fire from further down the line and immediately the herds exploded into silent airy flight. Each tiny creature danced and bounced on long legs no thicker than a man’s thumb. Seeming no longer bounded by the dictates of gravity, every fluid leap blurring against the matching background of parched earth, they tumbled and shot into the mirage-quivering air in the spectacular display of aerobatics that gave them their name, and down each of their backs a frosty mane came erect and shone with their alarm.
It was more difficult than trying to bring down a rocketing grouse with a spreading pattern of shot, impossible to hold the darting ethereal shapes in the cross-hairs of the lens, fruitless to aim directly at the swift creatures – necessary rather to aim at the empty space where they would be a microsecond later when the supersonic bullet reached them.
With some men shooting well is skill learned with much practice and concentration. With Shasa it was a talent that he had been born with. As he turned his upper body, the long barrel pointed exactly where he was looking and the cross-hairs of the telescopic sight moved smoothly in the centre of his vision and settled on the nimble body of a racing antelope as it went bounding high in the air. Shasa was not conscious of squeezing the trigger, the rifle seemed to fire of its own accord and the recoil drove into his shoulder at precisely the correct instant.
The ram died in the air, turned over by the bullet so his snowy belly flashed in the sunlight, somersaulting to the impetus of the tiny metal capsule as it lanced his heart, and he fell and rolled homed head over dainty hoofs as he hit the earth and lay still.
Shasa worked the bolt and picked up another running creature and the rifle fired again and the sharp stink of burned powder prickled his nostrils. He kept shooting until the barrel was hot enough to raise blisters and his eardrums ached to the crackle of shot.
Then the last of the herds were gone past them and over the hills behind them, and the gunfire died away. Shasa unloaded the cartridges that remained in his rifle and looked at Manfred De La Rey.
‘Eight,’ Manfred said, ‘and two wounded.’ It was amazing how those tiny creatures could carry away a misplaced bullet. They would have to follow them up. It was unthinkable to allow a wounded animal to suffer unnecessarily.
‘Eight is a good score,’ Shasa told him. ‘You can be pleased with your shooting.’
‘And you?’ Manfred asked. ‘How many?’
‘Twelve,’ Shasa answered expressionlessly.
‘How many wounded?’ Manfred hid his chagrin well enough.
‘Oh.’ Shasa smiled at last. ‘I don’t wound animals – I shoot where I aim.’ That was enough. He did not have to rub in salt.
Shasa left him and walked out to the nearest carcass. The springbok lay on its side and in death the deep fold of skin along its back had opened and from it the snowy plume started erect. Shasa went down on one knee and stroked the lovely plume. From the glands in the fold of skin had exuded reddish-brown musk, and Shasa parted the long plume and rubbed the secretion with his forefinger, then raised it to his face and inhaled the honey-scented aroma. It smelled more like a flower than an animal. Then the hunter’s melancholy came upon him, and he mourned the beautiful little creature he had killed.
‘Thank you for dying for me.’ He whispered the ancient Bushman prayer that Centaine had taught him so long ago, and yet the sadness was pleasure, and deep inside him the atavistic urge of the hunter was for the moment replete.
In the cool of the evening the men gathered around the pits of glowing embers in front of the homestead. The braaivleis, or meat bake, was a ritual that followed the hunt; the men did the cooking while the women were relegated to the preparation of salads and pudding at the long trestle tables on the stoep. The game had been marinated or larded or made into spiced sausage and the livers, kidneys and tripes were treated to jealously guarded recipes before they were laid upon the coals in the grilling pit, while the self-appointed chefs kept the heat of the fires from becoming oppressive with liberal draughts of mampoer, the pungent peach brandy.
A scratch band of coloured farm labourers belted out traditional country airs on banjo and concertina and some of the guests danced on the wide front stoep. A few of the younger women were very interesting, and Shasa eyed them thoughtfully. They were tanned and glowing with health and an unsophisticated sensuality that was made all the more appealing by the fact of their Calvinist upbringing. Their untouchability and probable virginity made them even more attractive to Shasa, who enjoyed the chase as much as the kill.
However, there was too much at stake here to risk giving the slightest offence. He avoided the shy but calculating glances that some of them cast in his direction, and avoided just as scrupulously the savage peach brandy and filled his glass with ginger ale. He knew he would need all his wits before the night was ended.
When their appetites, sharpened on the hunting veld, had been blunted by the steaming platters piled with grilled venison, and the leftovers had been carried away delightedly to the servants’ quarters, Shasa found himself sitting at the end of the long stoep furthest from the band. Manfred De La Rey was sitting opposite him, and the two other ministers of the government sprawled contentedly in their deep lounging chairs flanking him. Despite their relaxed attitudes, they watched him warily from the corners of their eyes.
‘The main business is about to begin,’ Shasa decided, and almost immediately Manfred stirred.
‘I was telling Meneer Courtney that in many ways we are very close,’ Manfred started quietly, and his colleagues nodded sagely. ‘We all want to protect this land and preserve all that is fine and worthwhile in it.
‘God has chosen us as guardians – it is our duty to protect all its peoples, and make certain that the identity of each group and each separate culture is kept intact, and apart from the others.’
It was the party line, this notion of divine selection, and Shasa had heard it all a hundred times before; so although he nodded and made small noncommittal sounds, he was becoming restless.
‘There is still much to be done,’ Manfred told him. ‘After the next election we will have great labours ahead of us, we are the masons building a social edifice that will stand for a thousand years. A model society in which each group will have its place, and will not intrude upon the space of others, a broad and stable pyramid forming a unique society.’ They were all silent then for a while, contemplating the beauty of the vision, and though Shasa kept his expression neutral, still he smiled inwardly at the apt metaphor of a pyramid. There was no doubt in any of their minds as to which group was divinely ordained to occupy
the pinnacle.
‘And yet there are enemies?’ The Minister of Agriculture cued Manfred.
‘There are enemies, within and without. They will become more vociferous and dangerous as the work goes ahead. The closer we come to success, the more avid they become to prevent us achieving it.’
‘Already they are gathering.’
‘Yes,’ Manfred agreed. ‘And even old and traditional friends are warning and threatening us. America, who should know better, racked by her own racial problems, the unnatural aspirations of the negroes they brought as slaves from Africa. Even Britain with her Mau Mau troubles in Kenya and the disintegration of her Indian Empire wishes to dictate to us and divert us from the course we know is right.’
‘They believe us to be weak and vulnerable.’
‘They already hint at an arms embargo, denying us the weapons to defend ourselves against the dark enemy that is gathering in the shadows.’
‘They are right,’ Manfred cut in brusquely. ‘We are weak and militarily disorganized. We are at the mercy of their threats—’
‘We have to change this.’ The Finance Minister spoke harshly. ‘We must make ourselves strong.’
‘At the next budget the defence allocation will be fifty million pounds, while by the end of the decade it will be a billion.’
‘We must put ourselves above their threats of sanction and boycott and embargo.’
‘Strength through Unity, Ex Unitate Vires,’ said Manfred De La Rey. ‘And yet by tradition and preference, the Afrikaner people have been farmers and country folk. Because of the discrimination which was practised against us for a hundred years and more, we have been excluded from the marketplace of commerce and industry and we have not learned the skills which come so readily to our English-speaking countrymen.’ Manfred paused, glanced at the other two, as if for approval, and then went on. ‘What this country needs desperately is the wealth to make our vision come true. It is a massive undertaking for which we lack the skills. We need a special type of man.’ They were all looking keenly at Shasa now. ‘We need a man with the vigour of youth but the experience of age, a man with proven genius for finance and organization. We can find no member of our own party with those attributes.’
