Swimming with Horses

by Oakland Ross

  She introduced herself and also Muletsi, using only their first names. He saluted them in turn, using both his hands — one to cup an elbow and the other to grip a proffered palm. He looked each of them directly in the eyes and held their gaze far longer than was customary. When at last he looked away, she glanced at Muletsi, and she could tell from his expression that something was up.

  “Nelson Mandela …?” he said.

  The man smiled. “That is said to be my name.”

  “Umkhonto we Sizwe?”

  The man named Mandela frowned. “I’m sorry. What is that?”

  Muletsi smiled. This was evidently the right answer. “You will join us for a drink of corn brew?”

  The man assented at once. Again, Muletsi gave Hilary a look, this time expressing what was almost disbelief. Mandela …? Nelson Mandela …? She knew the name, knew of it. He was one of the young firebrands of the ANC, part of a new generation of leaders, unencumbered by the burdensome compromises of their elders. He was a man who favoured aggressive tactics, even violence if necessary. Muletsi had spoken of him many times before now.

  They stayed up a long while after that, all four of them, all talking about South Africa and the prospect of change. They used terms such as Sharpeville and Malan, words that she recognized now. The Sharpeville massacre, two years earlier, in which dozens of black people had been killed. D.F. Malan, the man who’d engineered apartheid. She had been aware before now that Umkhonto we Sizwe meant “Spear of the Nation.” It was the armed wing of the ANC, and Nelson Mandela was its commander. That was known. But here in this cramped dwelling, on this frigid night, he would not own up to having any relationship with the organization, none whatsoever. Still, here he was, travelling alone on foot from Basutoland, after long weeks in North Africa and Europe, seeking support for the cause of racial equality in South Africa.

  It might have seemed strange to some that such a man would be journeying alone and on foot through remote territory, but this was said to be Mandela’s special talent, a penchant for clandestine ruse, the gift of secrecy. Eventually, the talk turned to Muletsi, to his escape from prison and to his doubts concerning the future, his future. Should he stay in South Africa or flee?

  “Go to Tanganyika,” said the man named Mandela. He didn’t seem to be in the slightest doubt. “Go to Basutoland first, then Tanganyika. We need you there, men with your education.”

  “What …? A degree in English literature from Fort Hare?”

  “Don’t laugh. That will carry you a long way — much further in Tanganyika than here. We need men who can communicate, who understand the power of words. You should proceed to Dar es Salaam. That’s where the new South Africa is being constructed, in exile. They need people like you, people with talent and dreams.”

  Mandela said he had been in contact only days earlier with ANC officials in Basutoland, and he reeled off several names — Ezra Sigwela, Khalaki Sello, Robert Matji, Joe Matthews. He said he’d make sure they would be expecting Muletsi.

  Hilary said little that night, content to listen, marvelling at the man’s gift for persuasion. She was convinced already that he was right, and she could see that Muletsi was coming around, as well. If Nelson Mandela said he was better off outside South Africa, then how could it not be so? The man had an air of assurance about him, a will you could not doubt.

  Eventually, they all grew drowsy, and the conversation took a desultory turn. Before long, Mandela hauled himself to his feet. He said he must retire for the night. It was late, and he had a long day of travel ahead of him. But first he wished to speak of another subject. He reached deep into the pocket of his coat and produced an object wrapped in foil. He removed the metallic covering to reveal another wrapping, a waterproof oilcloth, as he explained. He removed that, too. What remained was a gun. He nodded at Muletsi. “You recognize it?”

  Muletsi said he did. “Russian-made. Makarov. Semi-automatic.”

  “You are aware of its workings? You can use it?”

  “Yes. But why …?”

  “I’m coming to that. But first: You understand its workings, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” The man rewrapped the pistol in its two covers — oilcloth and foil — and proffered it to Muletsi. “It is loaded,” he said. “I think you know what to do.”

  It was clear to Hilary by now that this meeting — apparently so random — had not unfolded by accident, after all. She understood that this man, this Nelson Mandela, must have been in contact with Everest Ndlovu, or else with his higher-ups, and here was the result. Here was the enactment of the plan she and Muletsi had discussed with Mr. Ndlovu in Bruntville on the eve of this journey. If all went well, they were to be granted possession of a gun, and now here it was. No sooner had this realization crossed her mind than Mandela all but confirmed it. He turned to her.

  “You are Daniel Anson’s daughter, is it? The minister of state security?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you have taken up our cause?”

  She nodded. Had she not, in fact, taken up the cause? She was not a bystander now, not any longer. She was a participant, a fighter in the struggle. She nodded again. “Yes.”

  “Well, you will find it difficult, I fear. A woman. White. Daughter of a government minister.” He made a tsk-ing sound and shook his head. “Difficult. A difficult road. I wish you good luck, but I regret that this is all I am able to do.”

  She said she understood, and maybe she did.

  With that, the man named Mandela turned and marched out into the night along with Champion, leaving the two of them alone.

  “Mandela …” said Muletsi. He set the pistol and its wrapping atop a saddlebag that rested on the floor. He shook his head, plainly amazed. “Nelson Mandela …”

  Neither of them said what both of them knew. The decision had been made. The plan that Mr. Ndlovu had spoken of — it had been approved.

  FORTY-THREE

  Jack

  Basutoland, Winter 1962

  BASUTOLAND …?

  It was the worse effing place Jack had ever set eyes upon. Bar none. It was like a miniature South Africa, run by blacks. The good thing was, he’d got in. The bad thing was, he’d got in. Now here he was.

  He spent the first night in Maseru in a sagging, fleabag hotel crawling with vermin. Somehow, he managed some sleep, despite the banging and crashing from below. He could’ve sworn they’d come to demolish the place, whoever they were. Instead, it was just some disagreement about a woman, followed by a round of fisticuffs. That, at least, was what he was told the next morning. He didn’t have much time for exchanging local gossip, though. Instead, he was up early and away, for he had a bugger of a trek ahead of him — west to Mafeteng, south to Mohale’s Hoek, and on to a place called Quthing. Who in bloody hell had dreamed up these names? Even when he completed that stretch, he would still have a muck of a ways to go before he reached his real destination.

  Qacha’s Nek.

  He prayed to God he would manage the journey without some mechanical catastrophe befalling him, but he should have known that this hope, this minor, humble plea, was asking too much. Halfway between Mohale’s Hoek and Quthing, he heard a thump, followed by a terrible grinding sound and another thump. There you were — the effing steering mechanism was kerflooey again. Bloody hell. No surprise, maybe, when you considered the loopy madness of the roads in this damned place — not a straight stretch to be found. Just turn left, bear right, swing up, veer down. On the other hand, this latest cock-up was yet another sad object lesson in the quality of kaffir vehicular repair. Good for today. To hell with tomorrow.

  Now here he was, swinging left and then right, high in the Drakensberg, with lethal cliffs plunging away to infinity at every turn. One false move and he’d be brown bread for eternity, no doubt about it. Still, there was nothing for it but to careen ahead, yanking at the wheel, first this way then that, narrowly escaping one brush with doom after another. There must’ve been fifty degrees
of play in the steering.

  It was damned cold, too. Not your South African cold. This here was different. Worst he’d ever known. And what did the cold bring? Dear Jesus, it had brought snow. Thankfully, it was melting now. Just the same, he kept the four-wheel drive engaged, and he ploughed through the slush. As for creature comforts, he had the heater pumped up full blast, for what little that was worth. Damned thing raised the temperature barely a notch. Still, he would get to Qacha’s Nek one way or another, and then he’d figure out his next move from there, maybe find a good, secure lookout with a broad view of the mountain slopes and the land beyond. He’d hunker down and wait till he spied a pair of horses, each with a rider aboard. Even in the cold, this thought thrilled him to the core. Here was the secret, the thing that kept him going — the prospect of what was to come. He yearned for this.

  To think, that kaffir boy had come at him without so much as a by-your-leave, armed with a bridle and a pelham bit. What species of treachery was that? Low animal cowardice was what it was. If only he’d been given fair notice, the outcome would have been far different. He’d have seen to that. He’d have put the kaffir lad in his place right then and there, that very instant, that very spot. He’d have savoured his recompense with none of this infernal dragging on. But events had taken a different turn, and now he was obliged to seek out justice by a different route.

  He craned his head to look up through the windscreen, peering at the sky. The wind was up, and the clouds ran low, grey as mud with a rare rivulet of blue, like wrong-coloured blood dripping from a wound. This image raised his spirits and set his bile roiling, stirred by thoughts of what was to come. Pretty soon he felt as if he was driving across the very top of the world, his head close to nudging the sky. He could almost imagine he had Jesus himself riding alongside him, the good Lord in the flesh, long legs stretched out on the passenger side, smoking a fag he’d rolled with his own punctured hands.

  And what did the good Lord say unto Jack? The words were a shock at first, a sacred bullet out of the effing blue. Kill the kaffir by all means, quoth the Lord, but also consider the girl. Just think. She was the one who’d defiled herself with that swine, the one who’d besmirched Jack’s own good name. Consider what ought to be done with her. And there, in that moment, Jack recognized the truth. Praise the effing Lord!

  Once again, the steering wheel lurched in his hands, and he yanked the mechanism the other way. Ah, well. He was past Mount Moorosi now, and that was the worst of it, or so he hoped. Even now it wasn’t so bad. After all, he was barrelling east for Qacha’s Nek on a snake-shaped road through the melting snow, with a hymn in his heart, a gun within reach, and the sunlight now bursting through the clouds overhead — all this, plus the holy word.

  It wasn’t the kaffir, or not the kaffir alone. It was that effing traitorous girl.

  Had been all along.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Hilary

  South Africa, Winter 1962

  HILARY HAD UNDERESTIMATED EVERYTHING. She had surely underestimated the rain and the cold. How could anyone have known that the weather would turn so beastly? Not long after that night, when she and Muletsi had crossed paths with Nelson Mandela, it had again commenced to rain, and it continued to pour for two days without a break. That changed everything, all by itself, and then it only got worse.

  Snow! In South Africa! It seemed unimaginable. But the stuff fairly pummelled down, piling onto the slopes of the Drakensberg. She and Muletsi rode through a chill rain that alternated with bouts of snow. He was a brick. For the most part, he was. She knew he was still haunted by doubts. That meeting with Mandela had galvanized him, for a time, but the effect was wearing off. She knew it was so. Frigging hell, he’d told her as much that very morning.

  “The struggle is here,” he’d said, “not in Tanganyika.”

  “If you stay here, you’ll go to jail. Back to jail. It’s just a question of time.”

  “That’s a risk I have to take. Look at Mandela. He’s not running away to Dar es Salaam.”

  “He hasn’t been convicted of God knows how many crimes.”

  “Not yet.”

  “We can always come back, if things change. This isn’t a death sentence, you know.”

  That seemed to settle him, the idea that he could come back, that they both could. They rode on.

  Late that day they reached a township called Matatiele, and they spent the night there. The following morning, when she looked outside, she could barely credit what she saw. A deep cover of snow. The people said that this frozen whiteness was an unknown thing, at least in this abundance. They advised her not to go out. It was too cold, and the footing was deadly. The poor horses.

  But she didn’t listen, and Muletsi went along, putting his faith in her. They both elected to disregard the weather, which was bad enough. Even worse was the problem of Muletsi’s glasses — or, rather, his lack of same. He’d been stewing about the matter in silence ever since the night when they’d met Mandela, when the great man had presented them with the Makarov pistol. The gun was tucked away in Muletsi’s saddlebag now. But here was the fly in the ointment: without his glasses, Muletsi could not see, or not nearly well enough to be handling a firearm.

  Hilary kicked herself for not having thought of this. It was so obvious. At least, it seemed obvious now. As usual, she had been too dense to connect the dots, and now here they were, the two of them, a nearsighted man and a girl who’d never handled a firearm, not once in her life. Here they were with nothing to be done. She brooded about this in silence and then looked up, looked at him. He was gazing at her. At first she could not interpret his expression, and then she could. It was clear to her now that he had been worrying about this for a time, for days. Now he said what he needed to say, the only thing he could say. He said it was up to her.

  “No,” she told him. “Not a frigging chance.”

  He replied with the only reply there was. “There’s no choice, because I can’t do it. It’s you or it’s no one.”

  “Well, I can’t do it, either. I’ve never fired a frigging gun, not once in my entire bloody life, hey.”

  “It isn’t so difficult. You’d be surprised how easy it is. I’ll show you.”

  And that, it seemed, was that. It was true, what he’d said. There really was no choice. Even she could see it. Either she did the honours, or the honours did not get done. In a way it was a relief to have the matter out in the open. This was what had been causing him such torment — not some great existential question that no one could answer. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was his glasses, his frigging glasses. Spectacles in absentia.

  Initially, the realization calmed her. Then it did precisely the opposite. It unnerved her badly, caused her to quake in her boots, because there was no escaping what it meant, what it was now incumbent upon her to do.

  “Here,” he said. “You’d better keep it.” He presented the gun, and she took it from him, wedged it among the contents of her saddlebag for one reason and one reason alone. There was no other choice.

  They set out early that morning, never mind the cold. The horses were sore in the legs already, stiff as splints. Probably neither animal was properly sound, hadn’t been for days, not after the beating they’d taken, the country they’d been ridden over — hard, rocky land, most of the time half frozen. They’d grazed poorly, scrounging for what dead grass the sheep and goats had spurned. With this covering of snow, they were even further reduced in forage. They needed rest, not additional punishment. She bloody well should have known better — should have but had not.

  They pushed their way through the flurries of snow, nearly blinded by the onslaught, and then their luck changed, or so it seemed. Shortly past noon the snow let up, and what did you know? The frigging sun came out. They hadn’t seen so much as a lick of proper sunlight for a matter of days, and now here it was, cascading all around, glancing off the rocks and flashing against the sparse leaves of the poplar trees, glinting like copper coins
. Almost at once the snow began to melt.

  Muletsi rode alongside her. He pointed at the canvas bag clipped to her saddle. “The gun. I’ll show you now.”

  And he did. First, they tied the horses to the trunks of a pair of poplars, then strolled away a modest distance and got to work. It was perfectly evident he knew what he was about. He’d obviously had training himself. He released and reinserted the magazine, showed her how to engage and disengage the safety. There was no need to cock the hammer, he said. The first pull would do that, and then the hammer would recock itself. This was what was meant by the term semi-automatic. One pull, one shot. The first pull would be heavy — but after that, quick-quick. He fired two shots himself, to show her. Next, she fired two shots herself, thrilled at how simple it was — thrilled at first. Just seconds later, she felt the opposite way, not thrilled but horrified. So it was that easy, was it? That easy to kill?

  Now the magazine was half empty. She wrapped the gun in its waterproof covering, the oilcloth and the foil, and pushed it back into her saddlebag. There. That was done. She tried not to think about ever having to use it again.

  Instead she gloried in the weather, if only because it was impossible to do otherwise. The afternoon was sensational, even grander on account of the dreary days that had gone before. The Drakensberg reared overhead as if airborne. Those peaks made her dizzy, gleaming in the sun, taller than seemed possible and topped by the bluest sky she’d ever seen. She felt a surge of euphoria, couldn’t help it. What pride she felt. She half-believed that she was single-handedly dismantling the whole system of apartheid — she, this stupid little self-centred girl from Mooi River. Why, she’d met Nelson Mandela himself. And here she was, guiding Muletsi to safety, with Mandela’s blessing — all so that some wondrous thing could transpire.

  And, yes, it was romantic. She wasn’t inventing that. This was straight out of Lost Horizon. What was more, she would be the heroine. Dear God, she wanted that. And they were so close. That was what she imagined, or she did until they came within earshot of the Tsoelike River, where it flowed through a rocky gorge.