by Wilbur Smith
With men hanging from each stirrup leather, the horsemen reared and wheeled away, leaving only the badly hurt officer and another inert body lying among the wires and the terribly mutilated animals, while the police escort was doubling forward up the road in two columns.
Fergus saw them and fumed impatiently, trying to force his captive to his feet, but the man was hardly capable of sitting unaided.
The twenty constables stopped at fifty yards and one rank knelt, while the others fell in behind them, rifles at the ready. The command carried clearly. One round. Warning fireV The volley of musketry crashed out. Aimed purposely high, it hissed and cracked over the heads of the strikers, and they scattered into the ditch.
For one moment, Fergus hesitated and then he pointed the pistol into the air and fired three shots in rapid succession. It was the agreed signal, and instantly a storm of rifle fire crashed from the silent cottages along the road, the muzzle flashes of the hidden rifles dull angry red in the dawn. The fire swept the road.
Fergus hesitated a second only and then he lowered the pistol. It was a Webley . 45 5, a British officer's sidearm. The police Captain saw his intention in his eyes, the merciless glare of the stooping eagle, and he mumbled a plea through his mangled lips, trying to lift hands to protect his face.
The pistol shot was lost in the storm of rifle fire from the cottages, and the answering police fire as they fell back in confusion into the dip.
The heavy lead bullet smashed into the Captain's open pleading mouth, knocking the two front teeth out of his upper jaw, and then it plunged on into his throat and exited through the back of his skull in a scarlet burst of blood and bone chips, clubbing him down into the dirt of the roadway while Fergus turned and darted away under the cover of the hedge.
Only at Fordsburg were the police raids repelled, for at the other centres there had been no warning, and the strikers had not taken even the most elementary precautions of placing sentries.
At the Trades Hall in Johannesburg, almost the entire leadership of the strike was assembled, meeting with the other unions who had not yet come out, but were considering sympathetic action. There were representatives of the Boilermakers Society, the Building and Allied Trades, the Typographical Union and half a dozen others, together with the most dynamic and forceful of the strikers. Harry Fisher was there, Andrews and Ben Caddy, and all the others.
The police were into the building while they were deep in dialectic, debating the strategy of the class struggle, and the first warning they had was the thunderous charge of booted feet on the wooden staircase.
Harry Fisher was at the head of the conference table, slumped down in his chair with his tangled wiry hair hanging on to his forehead and his thumbs hooked in his braces, his sleeves rolled up around the thick hairy arms.
He was the only one to move. He leaned across the table and grabbed the rubber stamp of the High Council of Action and thrust it into his pocket.
As the rifle butts smashed in the lock of the Council Chamber, he leapt to his feet and thrust his shoulder into the shuttered casement. It burst open and, with surprising nimbleness for such a big man, he slipped through it.
The facade of the Trades Hall was heavily encrusted with fancy cast-iron grille work, and it gave him handholds. Like a bull gorilla, he swarmed up on to the third floor ledge and worked his way to the corner.
Below him he heard the crash of overturning furniture, the loud challenges of the arresting officers and the outraged cries of the labour leaders.
With his back pressed to the wall and his hands spread out to balance himself, Harry Fisher peered around the corner into the main street. It swarmed with uniformed police, and more squads were marching up briskly. An officer was directing men to the side alleys to surround the building, and Harry Fisher drew back quickly and looked around him for escape.
It was senseless to re-enter another window, for the whole building was noisy with the tramp of feet and shouted orders.
Fifteen feet below him was the roof of a bottle store and general dealer's shop, but the alleyway between was ten feet wide and the roof of galvanized corrugated iron.
If he jumped, the noise he would make on landing would bring police running from all directions, yet he could not stay where he was. Within minutes the building would be surrounded.
He eched sideways to the nearest downpipe and began to climb. He reached the overhang of the roof and had to lean out to get a grip on the rim of the guttering, then he kicked his feet clear and hung from his arms. The drop of fifty feet below him sucked at his heels, and the guttering creaked and sagged perceptively under his weight, but he drew himself up on his arms, wheezing and straining until he could hook one elbow over the gutter and wriggle the rest of his body up and over the edge.
Still panting from the effort, he crawled slowly round the steeply gabled roof and peered down into the main street, just as the police began hustling the strike leaders out of the front doors.
Fifty helmeted constables with sloped rifles had formed a hollow square in the road, and the strikers were pushed into it; some of them bare-headed and in their shirtsleeves.
Already a crowd was forming on the sidewalks, and every minute it swelled, as the news was shouted from door to door and the curious hurried from every alleyway.
Harry Fisher counted the prisoners as they were brought out and the total was twenty before the mood of the crowd began changing. That's it, comrades, Harry Fisher grunted, and wished he could have been down there to lead them. They surged angrily up to the police lines, calling to the prisoners and hissing and booing the officer who ordered them, through a speaking trumpet, to disperse.
Mounted police wheeled into line, pushing the crowd back and as the last prisoner was led out, the escort stepped out, maintaining its rigid box-formation which enclosed the dejected huddle of strikers, Somebody began to sing the Red Flag, but the voices that joined in were thin and tuneless, and the escort moved off towards the fort, carrying away not only most of the strike leadership but all of its moderate faction, those who had so far counselled against violence, against criminal activity and bloody revolution.
Harry Fisher watched them go with a rising sense of triumph. In one stroke he had been given a band of martyrs for the cause and had all serious opposition to his extreme views swept away. He had also in his hip pocket the seal of the Action Committee. He smiled a thin, humourless grin and settled down on the canted roof-top to wait for nightfall.
Mark Anders carried the General's heavy crocodile-skin brief case down the steps to the Rolls and placed it on the seat beside the chauffeur while he gave him his instructions. To Groote Schuur first, and then to the City Club for lunch. He stood back as the General came out of the house and paused on the top step to kiss his wife as though he were about to leave on a crusade to far places. He smothered her in a vast bear-hug and when he released her, he whispered something in her ear that made her bridle and slap his shoulder. Off with you, sir, she told him primly, and Sean Courtney came down the steps looking mightily pleased with himself, and grinned at Mark. The Prime Minister is making a statement to the House today, Mark. I'll want to see you directly afterwards Very well, sir, Mark returned the grin. I'll look for you in the visitors gallery as soon as he's finished, and give you the nod. Then we'll meet inthe lobby and I'll see you up to my office. Mark helped him into the back seat of the Rolls while he was speaking. He was always clumsy and awkward when moving sideways on to the bad le& nevertheless he resented the helping hand fiercely, hating any weakness in himself even more than he disliked it in others, and he shrugged Mark's hand away the moment he was comfortably seated.
Mark ignored the gesture and went on levelly, Your notes for the Cabinet meeting are in the first folder, he indicated the crocodile bag on the front seat beside the chauffeur, and you are lunching at the Club with Sir Herbert. The House sits at 215 and you have three questions from Opposition members, even Hertzog himself has one for you. Sean growled like an old lion h
ated by the pack. That bastard! I have your replies clipped to your Order Paper. I checked with Erasmus and then I added a few little touches of my own, so please have a look at them before you stand up, you may not approve. I hope you stuck it to them hard! Of course, Mark smiled again. rWith both barrels. Good boy, Sean nodded. Tell him to drive on. Mark watched the Rolls go down the driveway, check at the gates and then swing out into Rhodes Avenue, before he turned back into the house.
Instead of going down the passageway to his own office, Mark paused in the hall and glanced guiltily about him.
Ruth Courtney had gone back into the domestic depths of the kitchen area and there were no servants in sight.
Mark took the stairs three at a time, swung through the gallery and down to the solid teak door at the end.
He did not knock but turned the handle and went in, closing the door behind him quietly.
The stench of turpentine was a solid shock that made his eyes water for a few seconds until they adjusted.
Mark knew that he was quite safe. Storm Courtney never emerged before midmorning from that sacrosanct area beyond the double doors that were painted with gold cherubim and flying doves. Since arriving in Cape Town, Storm Courtney had kept such hours that even her father had grumbled and huffed.
Mark found himself lying awake at night, just as he was sure the General did, listening for the crunch of wheels on the gravel drive, straining his ears for the faint sounds of gay voices and mentally judging the length and passion of each farewell, troubled by feelings to which he could not place a name.
His relations with Storm had retrogressed drastically. In Natal there had been the beginnings of a relaxed acceptance and undertones of warmth. It had begun with a smile and a friendly word from Storm, then he had escorted her on the daily ride, driven with her to South Beach to swim in the warm surf and sat in the sun arguing religion with her instead. Storm was going through a fashionable period of spiritualism and Mark had felt it his duty to dissuade her.
From religion, the next step had been when Storm had announced, I need a partner to practise a new dance with. Mark had wound the gramophone, changed the needles and danced to Storm's instruction. You really are quite good, you know, she had told him magnanimously, smiling up at him, light and graceful in his arms as they spun around the empty ballroom of Emoyeni. You would make a crippled blacksmith look good job la! she laughed. You are the gallant, Mr Anders! This had all changed abruptly. Since they had arrived in Cape Town she had neither smiled nor spoken directly to him, and Irene Leuchars, who was to have been a house guest of Storm's for four months, stayed only one night, and then caught the next mail ship.
Her name had not been mentioned again, and Storm's hostility to Mark had been so intense that she could hardly bear to be in the same room with him.
Now Mark felt like a thief in her studio, but he had not been able to resist the temptation to steal a glimpse of the progress she had made on her latest canvas.
Full-length windows had been put into the north wall for the light, and they looked out on the mountain. Storm's easel stood in the centre of the bare uncarpeted floor, and the only other items of furniture were the artist's stool, a carpenter's table cluttered with paint pots and a chair on the raised model's dais.
Framed canvases in all sizes and shapes were stacked against the walls, most of them still blank. At one stage, during the period of friendliness, she had even asked Mark to help with the timber framework. He felt a pang when he remembered; she was a ruthless supervisor, checking every lo. mt and tack with a perfectionist's meticulous care.
The canvas was almost completed, and he wondered when she had found time to do so much work in the last few days, and realized that he had misjudged her. She had been working in the mornings when he had believed she was lying abed, but now he became absorbed by the picture.
He stood before it with his hands thrust into his pockets and felt a glow of pleasure spread slowly through his body.
It was a picture of trees, a forest glade with sunlight playing on earth and rock and two figures, a woman in a white dress, stooping to gather wild flowers, while a man sat aside, sprawled against a tree trunk and watching her.
Mark was aware that it was a great advance on anything she had painted before, for although it was a simple picture, it evoked in him an emotion so strong that he felt it choke in his throat. He was awed by the peculiar talent which could have produced this work.
He marvelled at how she had taken reality and refined it, captured its essence and made of it an important occasion.
Mark thought how it was possible for an untrained eye to pick out special talent in any field, just as a person who had never watched epee used before would recognize a great swordsman after the first exchange; now Mark, who knew nothing of painting, was moved by the discovery of real beauty.
The latch clicked behind him, and he spun to face it.
She was well into the studio before she saw him. She stopped abruptly and her expression changed, Her whole body stiffened and her breathing sounded stifled. What are you doing here? He had no answer for her, but the mood of the picture was still on him. I think that you will be a great artist one day. She faltered, taken completely off balance by the compliment and its obvious sincerity, and her eyes slipped away to the picture. All the antagonism, all the haughtiness drained from her.
Suddenly she was just a very young girl in a baggy smock, smeared and daubed with oil paint, and with a wash of pleased and modest colour spreading over her cheeks.
He had never seen her like this, so artless, so open and vulnerable. It was as though for a moment she had unveiled the secret compartments of her soul to allow him to see where she kept her real treasures. Thank you, Mark, she said softly, and she was no longer the glittering butterfly, the spoiled flighty little rich girl, but a creature of substance and warmth.
The rush of his own feelings must have been as obvious he had almost suc combed to the desire he felt to take her in his arms and hold her hard, for she stepped back a pace, looking flustered and uncertain of herself, as though she had read his intention. And yet you won't slide out of it that easily. The curtains were drawn hastily across the secret places, and the old familiar ring was in her voice. This is my private place, even my father wouldn't dare come in here, without my permission first obtained. The change was extraordinary. It was like a superb actress slipping into a familiar role, she even stamped her foot, a gesture that he found suddenly insupportable.
it won't happen again, he assured her brusquely, and he stepped to the doorway, passing her closely. He was so angry he felt himself trembling. Mark! She stopped him imperiously, but it was with an effort he forced himself to turn back; his whole body felt rigid, and his lips were numb and stiff with anger. My father asks permission to come in here, she told him, and then she smiled, a slightly tremulous but utterly enchanting thing. Couldn't you just do the same? She had him off balance, his anger not fully aroused before she assuaged it with that smile, he felt the rigidity melting out of his body, but she had turned to the bench and was clattering her pots busily and she spoke without looking up. Close the door as you leave, she instructed, a princess tossing an order to a serf. His anger, not yet fully assuaged, flared again brightly and he strode to the door with his heels clashing on the bare boards and he was about to slam it with all of his strength, and hope that it smashed off its hinges, when she stopped him again.
, mark!
He stopped, but could not bring himself to answer. I will be coming down to Parliament with you this afternoon. We will leave directly after lunch, I want to hear General Smuts speech, my father says it will be important. He thought that if he tried to answer her, his lips might tear, they felt as stiff and brittle as parchment. Oh dear, she murmured. I had completely forgotten when addressing Mark Anders Esquire, one must always say please! She crossed her hands demurely in front of her, hung her head in a caricature of contrition and made those dark blue eyes huge and soulful. Please may I
ride to Parliament with you today? I would be ever so grateful, I really would. And now you can slam the door. You should be on the stage, you're wasted as a painter, he told her, but he closed the door with studied deliberation and she waited to hear the latch click before she dropped into the model's chair, and began to shake with laughter, hugging herself delightedly.
Gradually the laughter dried up, but she was still smiling as she selected a blank canvas from the stock and placed it on the easel.
Working with charcoal, she blocked in the shape of his head, and it was right at the first attempt. The eyes, she whispered, his eyes are the key. And she smiled again as they appeared miraculously out of the blank canvas, surprised that she had them fixed perfectly in her mind. She began to hum softly as she worked, completely absorbed.
The Assembly Chamber of Parliament House was a high square hall, tiered with the galleries for Press and visitors.
It was panelled in dark carved indigenous wood, and the canopy above the Speaker's chair was ornately worked in the same wood.
Softly muted green carpeting set off the richer green leather of the members benches, and every seat was filled, the galleries crowded, but the silence that gripped that concourse was of extraordinary intensity, a cathedral hush into which the high piping voice of the Prime Minister carried clearly. He made a slight but graceful figure as he stood in his seat below the Speaker's dais. The entire Witwatersrand complex is passing slowly into the hands of the red commandos, He used his hands expressively, and Mark leaned forward to obtain a better view. The movement brought his outer leg against Storm Courtney's, and he was aware of the warmth of her thigh against his during the rest of the speech. Three members of the police have been killed in a brutal attack at Fordsburg, and two others have been critically injured in clashes with strikers commandos. These groups are armed with modern pattern military firearms, and they are marching freely through the istreets in quasi-military formations, committing acts of outrage on innocent members of the public, on public officers going about their duties, on all who cross their paths. They have interfered with public services, transport, power and communication, and have attacked and occupied police stations. Sean Courtney, who had been slumped in his front bench seat with one hand covering his eyes, lifted his head and said Shame! in a sonorous voice; it was his third-whisky voice, and Mark could not help but grin as he guessed that the club lunch had fortified him for the session. Shame indeed, Smuts agreed. Now the strikers have gathered about them all the feckless and dissolute elements in the community, their mood has become ugly and threatening. Legitimate strike action has given way to a reign of terror and criminal violence. Yet the most disturbing aspect of this terrible business is that the management of this labour dispute, or should I say, the stagemanaging of the strike - has passed into the hands of the most reckless and lawless men, and these men seek nothing less than the overthrow of civilized government, and a rule of Bolshevik anarchy. Never! boomed Sean, and the cry was taken up across the assembly. This house, and the whole nation is faced by the prospect of bloodshed and violence on a scale which none of us expected or believed possible.
