by Peter Rimmer
"Kind Mr Shank how nice to see you again," she said in a strange accent that was part of her lure: to give her conversation, Annie had taught Valentine how to read. Ever since the understanding of the written words, sweet romances had been a balm to her work. Always now she pretended she was someone else, the heroine, the lady with the glittering future and the perfect love.
Many years before in the hovel that had been her home in Cape Town a young sailor had come ashore. The Englishman was young, an officer and a romantic, treating Valentine like any lady he would have met in England. By the time his ship sailed she had a dream forged in her mind by the midshipman. She was going to escape her poverty and go to the tropical island the boy so vividly described where fruit fell from the lush trees, fish were caught by hand in the warm shallows and people loved each other. From the day he left she began to save her pennies in pursuit of the vast sum of money she needed to make her dreams come true.
"Are you mine tonight?" asked Jeremiah.
"I'm always yours dear Mr Shank."
"Call me Jeremiah."
"Really, Mr Shank. Why isn't this Mr Jones? How do you do, Mr Jones? I do so hope you are well."
Book 5 – War
Chapter 1: October 189
The heat was oppressive, the bush dry as a tinder box, brown grass broken down by six months of drought; brown trees leafless, no colour for miles except for the high blue sky showing between the columns of cumulus that reached to heaven; insects silent waiting for the rain and God's salvation; October, the month the new Rhodesians were calling the month of suicide when tempers snapped and friends fought with each other. And through the silence from far away came the whooping joy of Gregory Shaw as he forced his exhausted horse the last hundreds of yards towards the stockade of Elephant Walk. He shouted his news. There was a war. At last there was a war. And this time it was definite. The Boers had given the British an ultimatum.
The wild geese honked away from the shouting noise and pounding hooves, flying up and over the stockade. The dogs barked and a cow in labour joined her moos to the sudden mayhem. Sebastian Brigandshaw pushed open the screen door of his house having woken heavy-headed from his afternoon sleep, the mid-day too hot for anyone to work. The door thwacked shut behind him and the sun pierced his brain. Across the dry brown lawn between the msasa trees ringed by flowerless beds, white froth was lathering from the mouth of the exhausted horse.
"You're killing that bloody horse," he shouted, further annoyed by his own swearing.
"What's going on?" called Emily from inside the house.
"Gregory. He's gone mad. Look, you fool, you can't ride a horse like that in this heat. You'll kill the poor beast and we don't have good horses to spare. What on earth's the matter with you?"
"Kruger's given Chamberlain an ultimatum to move the British troops from the Transvaal border. The Boers, for God's sake Seb. The Boers have given us an ultimatum."
"Us, Gregory?"
"The British."
"Then they are all fools. A third of Rhodesians are Boers. You mean we’re going to fight each other?"
"Not here."
"Sorry, my friend. I don't have your enthusiasm for killing people. Don't want to kill the animals any more except to eat…You’d better rub that animal down before you do anything else."
"Don't you see, Seb. I'll be back in the army where I belong. Your brother promised if hostilities broke out."
"So now when you see Tinus you're going to shoot him?"
"I never thought of that."
The door clunked shut behind Seb, leaving Gregory alone. The dogs stopped barking. The tame Egyptian geese stayed down by the river and far away towards the Zambezi escarpment came a distant roll of thunder. And when their compound returned to its quiet Seb knew something had changed for all of them. The white tribes of Africa were going to war with each other. They were going to destroy each other and everyone else that came in between.
"The bloody world's gone mad again," he said slumping back onto the bed next to Emily.
"Please don't swear, Seb. The children will hear you."
"Sorry, Em. Not thinking in this heat. First we fight Lobengula and when we've chased him to his death we put down a rebellion. Now we are going to fight each other. Marvellous, absolutely marvellous. Don't we ever learn?"
"They won't make you go in the army, will they?"
"I have not the slightest idea. And just when the money from African Shipping was helping to build the farm this had to happen."
"Are the new ships ready?"
"Yes they are."
"Then Captain Doyle will make a great deal of money. Everything the army needs has to come from England…You think Gregory's horse will be all right?"
"Yes, Em. He loves that horse. In his excitement he just wasn't thinking. Ever since the start of recorded time men have been excited at the start of a war and disgusted by the end."
The sinking sun was shooting red fingers of fire up the sides of the giant cumulus. The wild geese had come back from the river for their evening feed of corn. The dogs were chasing the children and the children were chasing the dogs, the fox terriers barking with renewed excitement. On the fly-screened veranda in a comfortable chair, Henry Manderville had his legs spread out straight in front of him and Seb was pouring a glass of claret. Emily had put out the cold supper and the one servant had gone back to his hut for the night. The sound of drums was coming from the huts of the Africans down by the river and the smell of wood-smoke drifted up from the cooking fires. The thunder had gone away but not the oppressive heat that sapped everyone's energy except the children's. Their laughter was pleasant in the moment of sundown. Nobody spoke. Seb poured his wife a glass from the bottle. They waited, no one touching their drinks. One of the ridgebacks scratched at the screen door and Seb got up to let her in. The dog's water-bowl was on the veranda and the dog was thirsty.
When he got back to his chair and turned to sit down a figure was standing outside the screen door silhouetted by the glow of the sinking sun. The man was in uniform. He placed his hat under his right arm as he entered the room. For a moment Seb was unsure who had come to visit until the man moved into the light and the kerosene lamp showed him the face of Gregory Shaw. The uniform was blue with a wide white stripe down the length of the trouser. The tunic of the uniform was buttoned to the throat and the cloth stretched ominously under the armpit that cradled the hat. From the knee down the lamp showed the yellowing of age of the white strip. The leather cavalry boots were immaculate. Atop the stiff neck of the pale blue uniform with the red piping Gregory gave them a wan smile. Fran came in to the veranda letting the rest of the dogs and Harry follow.
Seb was about to say something when he caught the pleading look in Gregory's eyes. Instead he poured two more glasses of claret and proposed a toast.
"The Queen, God bless her." Everyone including Harry got up and repeated the toast.
Gregory refused to sit down and Seb understood why, the old stitching having enough trouble under the armpit.
"What's the uniform Greg?" asked Seb.
"Ninth Bengal Lancers." He looked about the veranda in the half-light the profile of his face caught and lost by the kerosene lamp. "Plumer's sending reinforcements to the Transvaal border tomorrow and I'm riding in early to offer my services. Luckily my number two uniform has a little more stretch." He tried a stride with only small success. "Put on weight, old boy. You know its eleven years since I wore this uniform…You think they'll need me Henry?"
"Quite sure they will. Every man in a war. Damned impressive Gregory if you'll excuse the expression, Em. That one ribbon's for bravery, what?"
"North West Frontier in '79…This one'll be all over by Christmas. Why I'm in a hurry."
"Makes sense. Bit of exercise do you good. Sebastian, be a good chap and give the captain another glass of claret. He's finished that one."
Later on Gregory took his food standing and no one laughed.
Far away in the cold of th
e Franschhoek Valley the sun had not set but the yellow light of late evening had turned the colour of the surrounding hills to soft purple. The news of war had reached the valley an hour earlier. A servant was busy lighting the big fire in the smoking room that led off from the long central room of the Cape Dutch house. The children were across the valley with friends and ever since the news had reached them, brought by a jubilant neighbour shouting obscenities in the Taal, Alison had wanted to be sick. Across the room her man was standing silently looking at her. Tinus was forty-two, almost three years younger than Gregory. The big beard was streaked in grey and the belly that stretched his shirt was soft with good living. After the years in the bush, domestic life had been good to Tinus Oosthuizen and even one day away from his children was too long. Though he was looking at his wife he was thinking of his brother and nephews in the Transvaal.
"What does this mean to us?" asked Alison into the silence. They could hear the tick of the grandfather clock in the dining room despite the door being closed. The fire flared for a moment and the look on her husband's face came back from its faraway place. She had fed the new baby half an hour before and the boy had gone fast asleep. The boy they had was called Christo and he was the easiest of all her children.
"It means my people are at war with your people. The boundaries of the Boer people do not stop in the Transvaal or the Orange Free State. We are a nation wherever we. The Cape, Natal, Rhodesia.
"Your mother was a Scot."
"My father was a Boer and that is what counts."
"What will you do?"
"I don't know, Alison. I am a Boer living in a British colony under British rule and my people are at war with them. My people will expect my help."
"Will you give it to them? What about our children? They are more English than they are Boer."
"That's why they are with the du Plessis's. To learn they are Boer. That is their heritage."
"But why does it matter so much?"
"Because man is tribal. Would you like to be German?"
"No, of course not."
"Then why must my children be English when they are Boers?"
"But how can President Kruger have given the British an ultimatum? The British Empire controls the world."
"And that's the point, my wife. Kruger does not want them to control the Transvaal and put all his gold in the Bank of England."
"It's about gold?"
"War is always about gold. Gold in one form or the other. Gold and power and usually they go together. Part of life's mosaic and the pattern never changes."
"I'm pregnant again."
"I am pleased for us."
James Brigandshaw had been listening to his colleagues in the British Intelligence service for half an hour never taking his stare away from the pig eyes of Cecil Rhodes, the most influential of the Rand Barons who through his diverse and interlocking shareholdings controlled a major portion of the gold on the Witwatersrand: the man's eyes were blood shot and he wheezed with a chest complaint, but never once did he return the stare. It was an hour past midnight and Kruger's ultimatum had not been met, with British reinforcements reaching the borders of the Transvaal instead of withdrawing as Kruger demanded. The small, landlocked state of the Transvaal with its armed militia of farmers were at war with Great Britain the most powerful nation on earth. Outside on the streets of Johannesburg everything was quiet. The foreigners, mostly British, Uitlanders in Kruger's terms, were inside their houses doing nothing as they had done when Doctor Jameson tried to precipitate an uprising in '96.
James, as with his colleagues, was dressed in civilian clothes and had yet to enter the conversation. Rhodes had not spoken a word. In the stable next to the two-storey building on Sauer Street where the meeting was taking place, well fed and rested horses were waiting to take the British officers out of enemy territory. All but James were going south to the Cape colony.
The argument had been going round in circles ever since it had begun.
"You'll excuse my interruption gentlemen but you are all missing the point," said James. "This war has nothing to do with voting rights though if those other than Boers were permitted to vote this war would be unnecessary as we British would be in the majority if you exclude the blacks, an interesting point in a discussion on rights but best leave that one alone. Please, do not let us be beguiled by our own propaganda. What a politician says to gain his point rarely is the reason for that point. The British government has cried eloquently that there can be no taxation without representatives. Sounds rather nice, doesn't it? Very righteous. We British are right and this man with the full beard, this farmer from the veld is wrong. The British cabinet probably don't give a hoot for the British miners in Johannesburg. They want the gold to be British, to hell with the people. They are hypocrites but heaven forbid we ever say that in public. But the fact remains. They want the gold. Now, to tell Mr Rhodes and the other mine owners to close their mines and stop paying Kruger is folly. To blow up our own mines is even more ridiculous. Let Kruger have his supply of gold for as long as it takes the British army to invade and reach the mines. Don't tempt these burghers to sabotage the mines and set back British gold production for years to come."
"He will use the gold to buy arms and kill Englishmen," said a British captain.
"Probably. Then we must hurry the army to Johannesburg."
"It may take months."
"It may take years. Remember the battle of Majuba, old chap. All I'm saying is there's no point in blowing up one way or another the very thing we are fighting for. To fall into the trap of believing our own political claptrap would be foolish. Tell the press what you like but gentlemen, please, let us be honest with ourselves."
"You really think this war is about gold?" asked the same man.
"You tell me what else it is about, old chap."
"The mines stay open," said Rhodes standing up. "And if any man says I was in Johannesburg tonight, I will deny my presence. I never left Kimberley. Good night to you all." At the turn Rhodes turned back to the men seated round the table. "Mr Brigandshaw, are you related to The Captain?"
"He is my father."
"I see. I really do see. Maybe you too sir have a double agenda."
"The result is always the same, Mr Rhodes. You said so yourself. At the end of everything it all comes back to money."
"And vanity, major. Never forget vanity. A man's price can also be his vanity."
The door closed on the richest man in the Empire and they all listened to his footfalls receding down the stairs.
"What did he mean by your double agenda Major Brigandshaw?" asked the colonel in charge of the meeting.
"My father owns Colonial Shipping as you know, sir. Mr Rhodes thinks my father will make a great deal of money when demand for shipping space exceeds supply as a result of this war and shipping rates spiral. And he is probably right. Politicians send the army to fight their wars to extend their political power but men of business, men in trade, reap the real profits. But how silly of me, gentlemen. I am sure you are just as aware of the machinations of men. President Kruger would have been left on his stoep in Pretoria for all eternity, obscure and happy were it not for the gold under his ground. With respect colonel, but I sometimes find life a trifle indigestible but then maybe we should get to the horses before the burghers make a meal of us."
"This meeting is closed," said the colonel.
The Boer pony stood patiently waiting for James. The lieutenant-colonel and the two captains had let themselves out of the stable into the night ten minutes earlier. They had all shaken hands solemnly and then been wished a cheery toodle-oo by James. He was alone and took from his jacket two lumps of sugar and offered them to the pony. The velvet muzzle pulled the cubes from the palm of his hand while man and horse looked at each other with genuine affection. James had bought the small horse from Jeremiah Shank six months earlier to everyone's surprise. The animal was too small for most Englishmen's taste but James knew the Boers favoured the st
rong mountain ponies that foraged for themselves from the veld. A pony, a bag of dried meat, a mauser rifle, two bandoliers of ammunition and a Boer could trek for months without looking for supplies.
The soft brown eyes of the horse watched carefully as James changed his clothes. Finally he covered his face and cheeks with theatrical glue and affixed the beard in place. Placing the small saddle with the short stirrups over the pony he checked the mauser rifle and slid it down into the well-worn saddle holster. The first and second bandoliers were crossed over the dirty, well washed shirt and half covered by a long jacket of homespun. The trousers were long and tough, like the leather boots, to fend off the thorn bush of the highveld. James hung the double saddlebag over the horse's rump and mounted. When he rode the horse down Sauer Street into the night he was like any other burgher headed home to the farm after a visit to the sprawling mining camp of Johannesburg. If challenged he had learned enough words of the Taal to pass as a Boer. There was nothing on James or the pony, including James's underwear, to suggest he was British. The nice touch he thought was the old bush hat with a wide rim he had stolen from a Boer who had trekked up to Rhodesia in the never-ending search for a pot of gold. The man had left the hat on Annie's bar while he went out to relieve himself, too drunk to notice the theft.
On the third day of his journey James could smell himself. The Great North Road, a misnomer for a bush track deeply rutted by the wheels of heavy carts, was empty of people but either side the open veld was teaming with springbok, gnu, elephant and giraffe. Never before had James been so content with himself and on the fifth day they rested beside a river, he and his pony, beneath a tall acacia tree and the war that he had been part of provoking was as far away as the moon he could still see in the morning sky and he wondered sadly why so many men and women could never be content with themselves. The long brown grass, broken by animals and heat, stretched away to hills far distant in the haze of summer and the white clouds placed in the blue sky never moved, patterning the bush with shadows and darkening patches of the great hills.
