Patiently, Jooste took his audience through what he perceived to be fundamental principles for the Broederbond’s future role in South Africa: ‘Naturally, our responsibility comes first. I see this being to foster the unity and direction of South Africa. Not just among our own members but in all aspects of the community, from backward Kaffirs to those in positions of power who are unwilling or unable to openly join with us.’
Heads reacted with reflective agreement. It crossed van Deventer’s mind that Jooste needed only to open his mouth and those listening had but one collective response. His rhetoric could sometimes be stirring, though more often than not the man merely stated the obvious.
One of those at the table had a four-point plan he wished to discuss. Jooste heard him out in silence, agreeing, objecting, accepting – each with small movements of his hands or head.
Then he moved on. ‘Our press must become involved. It’s essential we have them on side, ’Jooste said, switching to the Broederbond’s second basic requirement.
No-one disagreed. To gain the attention of twenty-five thousand potential sympathisers would not be easy, and to annex their hearts and minds even more difficult. They needed all the help they could get.
Afrikaner cultural organisations came next, specifically the problems faced in promoting their activities and ensuring the widest possible recognition.
Being a deeply religious race, the philosophical needed airing as well. They discussed, at length, the burgeoning emphasis on humanism, communism and liberalism – and possible means to combat them. All agreed that such matters were a threat to the spirit of South Africa.
Jooste was warming to the subject he felt strongest about. ‘The Engelsmen who rule business want economic integration. Few, if any, accept the term “separate development”. They are so set in their ways that the apartheid of which we speak does not appeal to them. We must continue to strive for it – South Africa cannot move forward while our volk are relegated to subordinate positions. God help us, the British will soon be suggesting we bring blacks into our businesses.’
This comment was greeted nervously. It had occurred to each man in the room that, at some stage in the future, integration was a distinct possibility. None was comfortable with the thought. God, there were so many of them. The blacks would cream off what was rightfully due to the Afrikaners and where would that lead? After lengthy discussion on the subject, Jooste moved to his final point.
‘Education, gentlemen. Do we educate the niggers or not? Do we want them running around telling us what to do because they know as much as us? I say to you, no. I say to you, let’s keep them ignorant. Ignorant men work for less pay and don’t know any different than to be happy with it. To hell with education. This country can’t afford the cost.’
There was no argument. To the last man, the idea of educated Africans was abhorrent.
Jooste sat back satisfied yet parched. He’d been speaking for the best part of three hours and was quite wrung out with emotion. It had gone well, as he’d known it would. These men had been hand-picked for the likelihood they would agree with him and for their known influence over others. Soon the word would spread. Only the Broederbond could take care of the Afrikaners. Nothing else would.
Paul Jooste was not only ahead of his time, he proved to be prophetic as well. Sixty years later, his six points were still being bandied about by a different set of men, still under the same organisation’s banner. Van Deventer handed him another dop. ‘Thank you.’ Jooste downed the drink with uncharacteristic haste, then turned to one of the others. ‘I take it you will see that Venter is completely briefed on tonight’s developments?’
‘Ja, meneer.’
‘English, if you please, ’ Jooste warned. It was the language he insisted they use. In his mind there was little doubt that English would become the lingua franca used in South African politics. He wanted his normally Afrikaans-speaking Broederbond ready and able to use it.
Torben and Gerda’s visit ended on a high note. For some reason, Torben’s tendency to find fault with everything melted away on the last day, revealing a different character altogether. When he wished, he could be totally charming, very funny and a good companion. His wife took her cue from him, dropping any affectations, showing genuine interest in others and proving she too could be excellent company.
Virginia arrived for dinner sporting a diamond engagement ring which had been part of Dallas’s inheritance from his real father, Jonathan Fellowes. The entire family knew of this and Torben’s only comment was one of congratulations. After all, Gerda had expressed a love of sapphires. In any case, there was plenty left to adjust any imbalance at some future date.
Gerda and Virginia enjoyed a cordial relationship, seeing each other infrequently enough to be able to do so. Gerda teased Cameron for dancing attention on his new fiancée. Virginia smiled winningly, Torben indulgently. Duncan remained wary, lest she start on him. He needn’t have worried. Gerda had nothing more than a light-hearted evening on her mind, which was just as well since Tanith, who was also a guest that evening, openly loathed the plump Afrikaner.
Dallas poured wine and before sitting proposed a toast: ‘To the women in our lives, gentlemen. Without them, we are nothing.’ His eyes met Lorna’s and he was wickedly pleased to see her surprise at such an open display of affection. He liked to catch her out sometimes. Dallas watched as laughter lines lengthened around her eyes and she smiled in private acknowledgement.
Christ, he was a lucky bastard! He wouldn’t change a moment he’d spent in her company. When Katie had died and their blackest hour was upon them, Lorna and Dallas sought and found the most incredible strength in each other. She could bring him to his knees with laughter or despair, lift him from depression with love and understanding.
His wife was thinking similar things. Lorna still wanted and needed Dallas physically – sometimes as desperately as when they were younger, full of forbidden desires and unfulfilled dreams. He was her rock in the sand dunes of time. The children were pebbles, not solid as stone, because, despite their having grown up, they were still her babies. In one way or another each of them depended on her. Lorna could only provide that stability because she enjoyed the same and more from Dallas.
Katie was lost to them forever. Frazer would soon be making his own life, probably in Britain, and Ellie’s chosen work kept her away. How long before Meggie flew the coop as well? Torben was settled in Durban. Of their seven children, perhaps only Cameron and Duncan were destined to stay. That was fine; families everywhere faced the same defection. Children had to make their own way, not rely on parental protection.
Lorna’s eyes found Torben. Such a handsome young man, sitting proud and tall next to his wife. Ah, God, the wife! No matter. Virginia was all she could hope for and more in a daughter-in-law and, if Tanith eventually became part of Duncan’s future, the same would apply to her. Lindsay and Ellie seemed happy, even if the girl was fooling herself thinking her mother didn’t know the two of them were sleeping together. It was so obvious. Did Dallas know? He liked Lindsay though he had his doubts – that the man was too academic, with not enough get up and go. But Lorna saw a strength in him. He had Ellie’s best interests at heart. And Frazer? Oh-so-meticulous Frazer. Artistic, gentle Frazer. A lover. Good combination. Lorna had heard rumours ... It didn’t matter.
Good grief! The soup was finished. Lorna gathered her wits and rang the bell to summon their second course.
Zululand was no longer a British protectorate. In 1897 it had become part of Natal, opening the way for an influx of European settlement. For the Zulu people, leaderless since their king – Dinuzulu – had been exiled to the island of St Helena, this was not the only difficulty they faced. In the last three years plagues of locusts had decimated food crops and then, when all looked well again, the spring rains failed and cattle began dying of a mysterious disease.
Britain’s answer to the growing rumblings of discontent was to bring back Dinuzulu. He set up his kraal at
Nongoma, thirty miles from Cetshwayo’s one time royal residence at Ulundi, but with no power or authority, found himself little more than an advisor.
Mister David had a problem. To speak or not to speak. His information had been passed on as confidential and that meant tribal loyalties were brought into play. It was not only allegiance to his chief that kept Mister David silent. The Zulus were being placed in a difficult position by both Boer and British. A likely confrontation between the two might well be made worse if certain gossip were repeated.
The Boers had made cautious advances to a number of chiefs. They sounded innocuous enough – would the Zulus be prepared to perform certain important duties should there be an outbreak of hostilities with the British over land issues? This was a very real problem. Zulu, Basuto and Tswana tribes tended to sympathise with Britain while Swazis seemed to favour the Boers. Now, despite deeply held differences, individual chiefs were once again vacillating, as they had done for centuries, trying to broker the best deal they could without compromising the uneasy truce that had held, more or less intact, since the great Zulu War.
It was obvious to some, Mister David included, that the supposedly innocent requests meant much more than was stated. The Boers wanted intelligence gatherers and claimed to have ten thousand blacks who, whilst working as cattle herders, cooks, domestic servants, transport drivers and such, would listen and report back on employers, who were invariably less than cautious in their servants’ hearing.
The British were well aware of this. They also knew that using Africans to gain access to intelligence was fraught with danger. Generally polite, most tended to deliver information they thought the recipient would like to hear rather than the truth. Misinformation was the inevitable outcome and Britain had learned from the Zulu War how costly such a thing could be. Confrontation with the Boers was increasingly regarded as inevitable. To this end, the British were bolstering troop numbers by redeploying regiments already serving in India – their responsibilities being taken over by locals. The timing conveniently coincided with a decision to do away with that colony’s military administration.
What worried Mister David was whether Dallas knew just how advanced negotiations were between the Boers and Zulu chiefs. The rhetorical outpourings of a man called Jooste in Johannesburg had, until recently, caused some mirth in British ranks. At least they were aware of him and his ambitions. What Britain didn’t know was that the tone had changed from ‘what if’ to ‘when’. Dallas’s long-term friend wondered at what point he should advise his employer of the changed status quo. The more he thought about it, the more Mister David realised it must be soon. Dallas had played a not insubstantial role in the Zulu War and it was right that he be appraised of the subtle switch in affiliation that was taking place. The Boers were planning something and Britain had to be made aware of it. And he, Mister David, had the means to do precisely that.
The dining-room bell rang and Mister David sighed, his dilemma not completely resolved. He sent two girls to clear the last course. Dessert, then cheese and biscuits would follow. Perhaps he’d find a chance to speak with Dallas after Torben had gone back to Durban. It would be unwise to do so before this. As everyone knew, Torben’s loyalties were to himself alone.
News of Danny Reese’s death reached them about a week after it happened. Lorna and Dallas knew the family, largely through Lorna’s longstanding friendship with Elizabeth, Danny’s mother.
‘I must write to her, ’ Lorna said. ‘She’ll be devastated.’
‘Danny was Wallace’s pride and joy, ’ Dallas added. ‘When you write, please send them my condolences too.’
‘Of course.’
‘Funny, though.’
‘Funny?’ Lorna raised her eyebrows.
‘Two things don’t add up ... the lad knew that land like the back of his hand and, in my experience, lions seldom attack people unless provoked.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, ’Dallas said quietly, ‘that something stinks.’
‘Don’t make it worse, ’ Lorna warned. ‘It might be as they say– an unfortunate accident.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘Not particularly.’
Dallas pulled a face. ‘Twenty years ago I warned Wallace about settling there. He’s surrounded by Afrikaners. Not a good idea.’
‘Each to his own, you mean?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I disagree, ’ Lorna argued. ‘To achieve a united South Africa we must move away from this separate development nonsense the Afrikaners keep going on about. It’s dangerous talk, Dallas. It won’t work.’
‘True, but is there any point in sticking yourself right under their noses? They resent it. They feel it’s an intrusion and, in a way, it is. Slowly, slowly. Change can’t happen overnight.’
‘We’re off the subject, ’Lorna said briskly. ‘Young Danny is dead, whether by fair means or foul, and that has to be the most important thing now.’
‘You are right, as usual, my darling.’
She lifted her eyes lazily and Dallas instinctively ducked the flying ball of wool. She hated to be patronised. Laughing, though the boy’s death was far from a joke, he left Lorna’s sewing room.
Dallas couldn’t get the image of young Danny Reese from his mind. The boy was a first-class pain in the arse, a fact that no doubt stemmed from isolation and more than a degree of adulation by both parents. As an only son– the Reese family consisted of four daughters before Danny was born– he had been indulged from birth. The fact he felt comfortable doing a little trespassing would indicate that, although he should have known better, Danny believed himself above challenge.
Something else bothered Dallas. He’d met the Gil family, devout Afrikaners and the Reeses’ nearest neighbours. He’d once heard Wallace refer to young Erich Gil as a ‘fuck-up’, a comment carelessly made within earshot of both the boy and his father. If anything were designed to promote antagonism, it was a senseless, downright cruel remark like that. Erich Gil, as Dallas remembered from their one and only meeting, was a pleasant enough young man who happened to have been born with a number of unfortunate defects, and he was selfconscious to the point of agonising shyness. What if Erich had come across Danny and decided to take revenge? Who could blame him? Erich had to be slightly dysfunctional, living with such obvious physical deficiencies.
If Boer and British hatred came that close to the surface in a predominantly Afrikaans-speaking Orange Free State, at what point would it spill over? How far? How badly? How quickly? Dallas had no doubt that the escalating conflict was edging towards all-out war. He’d been there before, though this time would be different. No lopsided struggle between guns and assegais. A full-scale white man’s war would destroy everything that had been started. No. Not quite true. The Afrikaners would never allow that. But who would emerge as winners? Ahead, and looming fast, all Dallas could see was trouble.
In a determined frame of mind, he decided that now was as good a time as any to get back onto his horse. Fortunately for him, the animal was of a quiet disposition and more than happy to stand still. Mister David was also on hand.
‘You’re a cook, not a bloody watchdog, ’ Dallas muttered in frustration. ‘Go and do something useful in the kitchen.’
‘When you are safe.’
‘I’m fine. Go on, get out of here.’
‘I am fine also, baba. And I will stay.’
‘Stubborn old man.’
‘Then send me home.’
‘Never. You are so stubborn you would only go if the king called.’
Mister David smiled. Dallas’s reference was a direct comment on his loyalty and it touched the Zulu deeply. In the old days – and Dallas included himself in those – when the king called his regiments, any man too old would be sought out and ‘sent home’. Being too old to fight rendered a warrior useless and, depending on past brave deeds, he would be killed kindly or clubbed to death. Whichever way he died, the job was done by his own p
eople and always with the individual’s interests at heart.
‘Besides, ’ Dallas continued, ‘who would make my cheese straws and bread-and-butter pudding the way you do?’
‘No-one, ’Mister David acknowledged. ‘And you’d better remember that. Now, put your foot in my hands and pull yourself up.’
There were only two people Dallas would allow to boss him around. The other was Lorna. On his horse at last, he looked down into the familiar kindness of Mister David’s face. ‘Thank you.’
‘How does it feel?’
‘Good.’ He stopped. ‘A bit stiff, if you must know.’
Lorna joined them. ‘Dallas! What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like?’
Her tone brought Cameron and Meggie from the house. ‘Father! Get off that damned horse.’
‘No. Are either of you coming with me?’
‘Where to?’
‘Nowhere. Just a ride, I promise. Nothing strenuous.’
‘How did you get up there?’
Dallas looked guilty. Mister David moved quietly backwards, his look conscience-stricken.
‘I made him help me.’ The distortion of truth on behalf of his old friend they accepted as being typical of their father.
Meggie rounded on the cook. ‘Really, Mister David, I thought you had more sense.’
‘Does it make sense to smother a man with reason?’ the Zulu countered. ‘Will he thank you? I think not. He will blame you for his boredom.’
‘And what if something goes wrong?’
‘How often does this thing happen?’
Meggie had no answer. Rarely, she knew that.
Reluctantly, Cameron joined his father and the two set off at a sedate pace. Within minutes Dallas’s laughter carried back on the light breeze.
‘Listen to him, ’Lorna said to Meggie, an arm around her daughter’s waist.
Footprints of Lion Page 8
