by Peter Rimmer
"Ethel! Do you want some money?"
Slowly the door opened.
"Money. You people only think of money. Please don't tell 'im. Anyone. My Fred's a good man. It'll kill 'im. Just don't tell Jeremiah and 'ave 'im bustin' in 'ere and ruining the lives of all of us."
"He'd have less reason if he knew I was his father."
"That boy's evil. He'd use it to torment us. He'd enjoy making us all miserable. See what happens when you do something wrong. Evil, he is. I feel sorry for his wife."
"So you know about his son?"
"In the paper…What they call 'im?"
"Edward."
"So he knows?"
"No. I'm his mentor. Gave him a start in business. Ethel, you have my word as a gentleman. Only you and I will ever know. You see, all the way along I couldn't see what I could do for you without making it worse. I'll go now before the neighbours talk. I wanted to be certain. He's the only child I ever had."
When he had gone, instead of crying, Ethel burst out laughing.
"Gentleman, my arse. More man and less gentleman and you wouldn't 'ave seduced me in the first place. I'll take Fred the coalman any day." Then she thought for a moment, "Poor bugger don't 'ave no kids he can call his own. That'll teach 'im."
That evening when Fred came home from delivering sacks of coal she sat him down in the parlour with a cup of tea. The kids were out playing in the street and down the alleys. The window was open to their backyard. She could smell the stocks Fred had planted in the spring. It was better to face a problem straight on, she always told the kids.
"There's somethin' I've never told you Fred. Should 'ave done, likely. I was young and frightened. But I owe you the truth before someone else whispers in your ear. Our Jeremiah is not your son."
"Eth. You think we could break the rule and go down the Duke of Clarence. Then I can celebrate. I'd hoped you'd tell me that ever since he opened his mouth. I knew Eth. Even a coalman can count up to nine months. I'm goin' to 'ave five pints and get drunk first time in my life. Yous goin' to 'ave two port and lemon. He may still be your son but it's my house. So ever 'e comes round 'ere looking for trouble I'll throw the little squirt down the front stairs into the street. Your mother told me she thought you was up the pole from young Teddy Holland, up at the big 'ouse. But it didn't matter. We loved each other. Now, come on. In all them years you never seen Fred Shank drunk…Tonight's the night!"
Sitting next to his wife at the piano not four miles away as the crow flies, Jeremiah Shank gave a sudden shiver and Fran stopped playing the piano.
"What's the matter?"
"Someone walked over my grave."
The townhouse in Hyde Park with twelve bedrooms and a reception room larger than three houses in Pudding Lane might have been as far away as the moon from the Duke of Clarence.
"Better we go back to Africa," he said.
"Why? This house is such fun and Africa so boring. You frightened one of my admirers will seduce me?"
"Even you know which side your bread's buttered. There's one thing I have learned in life. You can fool other people but you can't fool yourself."
"What are you talking about?"
"They're laughing at us Fran."
"They may be laughing at you, Jeremiah Shank but they are certainly not laughing at me. Anyway, who cares."
"I do."
"Then you're a bigger fool than I thought you were."
"You married me for my money."
"And you married me for my class. Everyone trades, Jeremiah. It's what makes the world go round. If everyone had what they wanted life would be boring…Anyway they don't laugh at you. They envy you."
"You think so?"
"I'm sure." Then she went back to playing the piano, satisfied with the new look in his eyes: she had perfectly stroked the feathers of his vanity.
Further south at Hastings Court, Lady Mathilda Brigandshaw watched a man in uniform ride up the driveway through the avenue of trees. She could only see him intermittently as the horse and rider passed between the oak trees that had been planted by Sir Henry Manderville's ancestors. She had first heard the clip of the horse's hooves and turned in her seat in the arbour that overlooked the artificial lake, landscaped into the countryside by Sir Henry's great-grandfather. She was sixty-one and felt every year in the joints of her fingers, the joints of her knees and ankles. The warm evening sun reflected from the water; all around insects were busy in the drowsy summer's day. Annoyed at being disturbed in the one place she found peace, Mathilda placed the thick stick on the ground in front of the old wooden bench and hoisted herself up. After a moment the pain subsided in her knees and she began the slow walk back to the house.
The butler met her halfway up to the big house. She hated servants. Could see no reason why they were needed. She could make a bed and cook a meal. And they were always around watching what you did. 'Gives me the creeps', she told herself while racking her brain for the name of the new butler. There had been so many since The Captain had bought Hastings Court and tried to tie himself into the Manderville ancestry. She was no good with servants, she knew that and they knew she was no better than them. her Cheshire accent as strong as when she had been a child. And The Captain bellowed at them forgetting he was no longer at sea the all-powerful captain of a ship.
The man in uniform had been shown into the high ceilinged library; the French doors open to the wide veranda that overlooked the park her husband had extended by buying surrounding farms. Flowers grew in profusion, tumbling out of the giant pots that marched along the front of the veranda protecting the ten-foot drop to the gravel driveway. There were seven gardeners and not a weed showed among the flowerbeds or in the driveway.
The man in uniform had walked out from the library to look at the view. Hearing the old woman's stick on the wooden floor he composed his face and turned back to the library. The woman was carrying his calling card in her left hand, the right fully occupied with the stick.
"I am Lady Brigandshaw. To what do we owe the pleasure, Captain Tanner?"
"No pleasure, madam. I bring bad news from the war office. Your son…"
"James is dead!"
"James, madam?" Discreetly the officer looked at the piece of paper he had been handed at the army training camp three miles from Hastings Court. "It says here your son's name is Sebastian. I am so sorry. There must be a mistake."
"Sebastian! But he's not in the army."
"So you do have a son by the name of Sebastian?"
"Of course I do. How would I know he was not in the army?"
"There's no rank, admittedly but he's lying in our military hospital in Cape Town."
"What's he lying there for?"
"He's very badly wounded. I regret to inform you the doctors fear for his life."
"Why didn't you inform his wife," bellowed The Captain who had been taking his afternoon nap and had told the butler not to disturb him on pain of dismissal.
"He doesn't have a wife, according to army records, sir. You would be Sir Archibald Brigandshaw, I presume. Captain Tanner, Royal Artillery. You and Lady Brigandshaw are listed as his next of kin."
"What's the reprobate done now? Hasn't he caused enough trouble? Never married her, I suppose. All the children are bastards. Now, if you have something important to say."
"Your son Sebastian is dying of wounds, sir. I would have thought…"
"I don't give a damn. That boy's name is never to be mentioned in this house even if he is dying. Good-day, sir."
They both listened in silence, the butler having made his escape earlier. One of the inside doors from the library banged.
"There is something else, Lady Brigandshaw. The army will give you passage to Cape Town. With the new steamships the journey can be made in eighteen days, weather permitting. The army thought the funeral…"
"He's not dead, yet."
"I'm to inform you there's a ship sailing from Southampton the day after tomorrow."
"I think we have our own tr
ansport, thank you. My husband owns Colonial Shipping. Will you take a glass of sherry Captain Tanner? Then you can tell me how Sebastian came to be lying in a military hospital. Has anyone in the army told poor Emily?"
"Who is Emily, madam?"
"The mother of his children. The woman who should have been his wife. And with Arthur dead and buried I'll have a word with him about that…What is your name?" she said to the butler who had appeared soon after eavesdropping the word 'sherry'.
Chapter 2: August 1901
In the middle of August, the Indian Queen (the second of the same name) steamed into Table Bay. For Captain Doyle standing alone on the foredeck it was déjà vu, only last time the prisoner was Sebastian. What he was going to do to help a situation already out of control was beyond his thinking mind. Enough he was looking at Table Mountain and hopefully Tinus Oosthuizen was still alive.
When the ship docked Captain Doyle was the first ashore. The sky was clear but the wind cold and he was glad the Cape Town manager of African Shipping had recognised the Indian Queen coming into harbour. Inside the company carriage with the doors closed he ignored the rug meant for the passengers’ knees.
Half an hour later, Sebastian saw the man who had been more loyal than a father walk purposely down the ward.
"Is Tinus still alive?" asked Doyle. "How are you?"
"Yes, he's still alive. The trial is two weeks from yesterday. A military trial. They moved him last week into military custody. Gore-Bilham has him in the Castle. And thank you, the hip's mending well but the pain still there. The bullet through the shoulder was clean…Have you got any influence that can help Tinus?"
"No. I can give him moral support but no one can influence a British military court."
"Emily's father thinks the same. An Irish newsman has tried his best. All it did was make Milner hand Tinus to the military. The British High Commissioner is a modern Pontius Pilate. Washed his hands of what he now says is a military problem. Alison has appointed a solicitor who has been able to do nothing. Can you go and see Milner? Gore-Bilham?"
"And say he was my partner? That his money came from an English partnership, an English shipping line? Better to go and see Smuts or de Wet and plead they stop the war to save Tinus's life. He's a hostage to make the Boers stop fighting. This is politics, not justice. Where in history have the English tried their prisoners? What would happen if everyone started hanging their prisoners-of-war?"
"Billy Clifford tried that angle and all he got back was traitors; people who are traitors to their own country are hung."
"But Tinus is not British."
"Neither was Milner by birth. He's a German. He's a naturalised British subject and if he takes up arms against the Crown they'll hang him just the same. Tinus lived most of his life in British colonies under British law. He's going to be made an example for any Cape Dutch who want to join the Boers. I went to find Tinus in the bush to tell him to stop before it was too late. He even told me he knew the consequences. What he didn't know, the lawyer tells me, is the British will confiscate Kleinfontein. Why I asked you to help, old friend, is I thought I was going to die. Or rather the doctors thought I was going to die. I want you to know Alison receives half my shares in African Shipping but they can't be registered for fear of confiscation. Alison is proud. You must tell her the money was always his. She must never think it is charity. Which it isn't. Without Tinus I would not have a penny, more than likely. And you would be a retired captain of one of my father's ships and eking out a living in some boarding house in Liverpool."
"Will she sell the shares?"
"Probably. To buy back Kleinfontein. Half of my shares are worth more than all of his when he sold out."
"Jeremiah Shank owns forty-one percent of African Shipping, the public a mere six percent. Every time a share came onto the market after the public listing, Shank was the buyer."
"But we only floated thirty percent."
"Baring's sold him the Tinus share and their sponsoring broker allocation. Quite legal. The man could have used a nominee to own the shares. When you go public you always take the risk of losing control of your company."
"Then why don't we both sell our shares on the open market?"
"Original partners dump shares! The shares won't be worth ten percent when the press finds out."
"Then sell the company to Shank."
"And let him win again. Don't you remember he put a noose round your neck?"
"Sometimes you have to lose a little to get what you want."
"And what do I do? I'm only sixty. Look older, yes, from all the years at sea. I'd be dead from boredom six months into retirement. I never had a wife. No children. I married ships and the sea. My ships are my children."
"Then we will find another way for Alison."
"Even military courts don't hang prisoners with extenuating circumstances."
"Not unless the general choosing the judges is biased. There won't be a jury. Five army officers and I'll bet Gore-Bilham himself will be senior officer. In the army if a senior officer gives you an order, you do what you're told."
"He won't give them an order to find a man guilty before he's tried."
"He won't have to. They all saw the news picture of Gore-Bilham without his trousers. He'll pick four ambitious men. A man rises in a government, a corporation and certainly the army by doing what is rudely called 'arse-creeping'. Those four men will be fighting for the privilege. Make a fool of a man and he will always be your enemy. Why I like living in the bush, far away from people. I have come to understand and respect the animals. I have never understood man."
"Can't we break him out of jail?"
"I've been thinking of that."
"Don't be bloody stupid," said Henry Manderville. "And keep your voice down, Sebastian. The word sedition springs to mind followed quickly by treason. Anyway, he's in a prison surrounded by a British garrison. I went to the Castle and did more harm than good. The man was polite. Offered me a glass of sherry. Listened carefully to every word I'd had to say, smiled with satisfaction and ordered himself another sherry. Told me what I had said confirmed what he already knew, that Tinus is a British subject. I tried the years north of the Limpopo before Rhodes hoisted the Union Jack. I pointed out Tinus had done nothing to become a British subject, that in those circumstances he was equally a subject of King Lobengula, that all the Englishmen hunting before the occupation were subjects of Lobengula and not Queen Victoria. Man went purple for a moment and then smiled. He explained the white hunters were visitors, not permanent residents, that when Tinus joined us, owning part of the farm, he automatically became a British subject as the farm was his permanent residence. The man had the cheek to thank me for being so helpful. And if you want to fight your way in and out of the Castle you need an army. Forget the fact you can barely walk on crutches. You can't get away from their rules and regulations, however far you run away. Just ask the Boers."
"What are we going to do?" asked Sebastian.
"Pray to God. Just pray to God."
They had given him a writing table and chair and an oil lamp that spread the light over the pages. He was writing to his children. The journal was in Afrikaans, the new language that over two hundred years had grown out of Dutch. The rest of the room was comfortable and Tinus suspected the previous occupant had been a British officer. It was a room furnished for a male and everything was practical, nothing frivolous. The food was good and the mess steward apologetic when it was cold: the officers’ mess kitchen stood on the other side of the castle. According to the steward it would have been better in summer.
They had all come to see him including young Harry Brigandshaw he had carried so often on his shoulders through the bush. Captain Doyle had just visited and hinted Alison and the children would never be short of money which was nice. The old English aristocrat, Sir Henry Manderville, had made his visit two days after seeing Gore-Bilham: the children were right, the man was quite potty, delightfully potty, talking, very quietly, of d
igging a tunnel under the castle wall. Alison had got over the loss of the baby and was back in control of her life. Mostly they had talked about the early days on the banks of the Zambezi River. She had refused to bring the children. Both of them knew he was going to hang which was why they talked of the old times. Life was indeed a mosaic and hanging by the neck from a rope was part of the pattern. He was forty-four and had had a good life and no one knew if the rest was going to be better than the past. Without the British rope who knew how long he was going to live? It had to end somewhere. The lawyer was a fool, which somehow made it better.
Alone, day after day, he faced his own mortality and tried to think of God. If he was honest with himself he could find nothing in a faith that would prove itself when he was dead. If there was a God he was ready to face the jury inspecting his life. If there was no God it would not matter. Religion, he rather thought, was for the living, not the dead. And so he had come to the journal.
The only thing Martinus Oosthuizen knew he would leave behind from his mortal life was his children. Maybe it was his only immortality and if so he wanted them to know as much about the people that had made them as possible: the seven generations of Oosthuizens in Africa which by some quirk of politics had turned him into an Englishman; the childhood he had spent in Graaff Reinet helping to build the system of flood channels that took the water gurgling down the side of the streets within each garden a small floodgate to open and make the gardens so green and beautiful he could see them still as clear as thirty years ago; the years hunting alone in the bush; his regret at never seeing the great elephant, only the great pads in the dry dust. All he knew and understood he wrote down in the journal and the days went quickly towards his trial. Inside the locked and guarded room was the world he had seen.
"What a wonderful life," he said out loud so many times. "How many people can be so lucky? If there isn't something more after this mortal life, what was the point? There has to be a point."
For hours, staring into nothing, he racked his brains, the trial far distant in his mind. If there was not a God and all God promised, just what had been the point? Why had his life been so beautiful?
