Power of the Sword c-10

by Wilbur Smith

  The fourth wall, directly behind Uncle Tromp's desk, carried a gallery of photographs, stern ancestors in Sunday finery in the top row and then, below them, devout congregations or learned members of synod, all featuring amongst them the unmistakable likeness of Tromp Bierman - a gradually maturing and ageing succession of Tromps, from cleanshaven and bright-eyed youth to bearded leonine maturity in the front row.

  Then, quite incongruously and startlingly, a framed and yellowing photograph, the largest of them all and situated in the most prominent position, depicting a young man stripped to the waist, wearing full-length tights, and about his middle a magnificent belt, gleaming with engraved silver buckles and medallions.

  The man in the photograph was Tromp Bierman aged no more than twenty-five, cleanshaven, his hair parted in the middle and plastered flat with brilliantine, his powerful body marvellously muscled, his clenched fists held before him, crouching in the classic stance of the pugilist. A small table in front of him held a treasure of glittering cups and sporting trophies. The young man smiled out of the photograph, strikingly handsome, and in Manfred's eyes, impossibly dashing and romantic.

  You are a boxer, he blurted out, unable to contain his wonder and admiration, and the Trumpet of God was cut off in mid-blast. The great shaggy head lowered, the eyes blinking as they readjusted to reality and then swivelling to follow Manfred's gaze.

  Not just a boxer, said Uncle Tromp. But a champion.

  Light heavyweight champion of the Union of South Africa. He looked back and saw the expression on Manfred's face, and his own expression warmed and melted with remembrance and gratification.

  Did you win all those cups, and that belt? I surely did, Jong.

  I smote the Philistines hip and thigh. I struck them down in their multitudes. Did you only fight Philistines, Uncle Tromp? They were all Philistines, Jong. As soon as they stepped into the ring with me they became Philistines and I fell upon them without mercy, like the hammer and the sword of the Almighty. Tromp Bierman lifted his clenched fists in front of him and shot out a swift tattoo of punches, firing them across the desk, stopping each blow only inches from Manfred's nose.

  I made my living with these fists, jong. All corners at ten pounds a time. I fought Mike Williams and put him down in the sixth, the great Mike Williams himself. He grunted as he weaved and boxed in his chair Ha! Ha! Left! Right!

  Left! I even thrashed the black Jephta, and I took the title from Jack Lalor in 1916. I can still hear the cheers now as Lalor hit the canvas. Sweet, my Jong, so very sweet, he broke off, and replaced his hands in his lap, his expression becoming dignified and stern once again. Then your Aunt Trudi and the Lord God of Israel called me from the ring to more important work. And the gleam of battle lust faded regretfully from Uncle Tromp's eyes.

  Boxing and being champion, that would be the most important thing for me, Manfred breathed, and Tromp's gaze focused thoughtfully upon him. He looked him over carefully from the top of his cropped head to his large but well-proportioned feet in battered velskoen.

  YOU want to learn to fight? He dropped his voice, and glanced at the door, a conspiratorial gesture.

  Manfred could not answer; his throat was closed with excitement, but he nodded vigorously and Uncle Tromp went on in his normal piercing tones.

  Your Aunt Trudi doesn't approve of brawling. Quite right too! Fisticuff s are for hooligans. Put the thought from your mind, Jong. Think on higher planes. He shook his head so A vigorously that his beard was disarranged, it took that effort to dislodge the notion from his own head, and he combed his beard with his fingers as he went on.

  TO return to what I was saying. Your aunt and I think it best that you drop the name De La Rey for the time being.

  You shall adopt the name Bierman until the notoriety of your father's trial fades. There has already been too much mention of that name in the newspapers, those organs of Lucifer. Your aunt is quite right in not allowing them into this house. There will be a great hoo-ha once the trial of your father begins in Windhoek next month. It could bring shame and disgrace on you and this family. My father's trial? Manfred stared at him without comprehension. But my father is dead. Dead? Is that what you thought? Tromp stood up and came around the desk. Forgive me, Jong. He placed both his huge hands on Manfred's shoulders. I have caused you unnecessary suffering by not speaking of this earlier. Your father is not dead. He has been captured by the police, and he will stand trial for his life at the Supreme Court in Windhoek on the twentieth of next month. He steadied Manfred as the boy reeled at the impact of the words and then went on with a gentle rumble. Now you understand why we want you to change your name, Jong. Sarah had hurried through her ironing and sneaked out of the house. She was perched now on top of the woodpile with her knees drawn up under her chin, hugging her legs with both arms as she watched Manfred at work. She loved to watch him with the axe. It was a long two -handed axe, with a red-painted head and a bright edge to the blade. Manie sharpened it on the whetstone until he could shave the fine gold hair off the back of his hand with it.

  He had taken off his shirt and given it to her to hold. His chest and back were all shiny with sweat. She liked the way he smelled when he sweated, like newly baked bread, or like a sun-warm fig just picked from the tree.

  Manfred laid another log in the cradle and stood back. He spat on the palms of his hands. He always did that and she involuntarily worked up a ball of spit in her own mouth in sympathy. Then he hefted the long axe and she tensed herself .

  Five times table, he ordered, and swung the axe in a long looping blow. It hummed faintly over his head as he brought it down. The bright blade buried itself in the log with a clunk and at the same instant Manie gave a sharp explosive grunt of effort.

  Five ones are five, she recited in time to the swinging axe.

  Five twos are ten. Manie grunted and a white wedge of wood flew as high as his head.

  Five threes are fifteen. The axe head spun a bright circle m the yellow light of the lowering sun, and Sarah chanted shrilly as the wood chips pelted down like hail.

  The log dropped from the cradle in two pieces just as Sarah cried, 'Five tens are fifty. Manie stepped back and leaned on the axe handle, and grinned at her.

  Very good, Sarie, not a single mistake. She preened with pleasure, and then stared over his shoulder, her expression suddenly stricken and guilty. She leapt down from the woodpile and in a swirl of skirts scampered back up the path to the house.

  Manie turned quickly. Uncle Tromp was leaning against the corner of the tool-shed watching him.

  I'm sorry, Uncle Tromp. He ducked his head. I know she shouldn't be here, but I just can't send her away. Uncle Tromp pushed himself away from the wall and came slowly to where Manfred stood. He moved like a great bear with long arms dangling, and he circled Manfred slowly, examining him with a small distracted frown creasing his forehead.

  Manfred squirmed self-consciously, and Uncle Tromp prodded his gut with a large painful finger.

  How old are you, jong? Manfred told him and Uncle Tromp nodded. 'Three years to full growth. You'll class light-heavy, I'd say, unless you make a spurt at the end and go full heavyweight. Manfred felt his skin prickle at the unfamiliar but somehow tremendously exciting terms, and Uncle Tromp left him and went to the woodpile. Deliberately he stripped off the dark jacket of his suit and folded it neatly. He laid it on the woodpile and then un-knotted. his white minister's tie and laid that meticulously on top of his jacket. He came back to Manfred rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt.

  So you want to be a boxer? he asked, and Manfred nodded, unable to speak.

  Put the axe away. Manfred buried the blade in the chopping stump and faced his uncle again. Uncle Tromp held up his open right hand, palm towards Manfred.

  Hit it, he said. Manfred clenched his fist and made a tentative rOund-arm swing.

  ,you aren't knitting socks, long, you aren't kneading bread.

  What are you, a man or a kitchen maid? Hit it, man. Hit it!<
br />
  That's better, don't swing it around the back of your head, shoot it out! Harder! Harder! That's more like it. Now your left, that's it! Left! Right! Left! Uncle Tromp was holding up both hands now, swaying and dancing in front of him, and Manfred followed him eagerly, socking alternate fists into the big open palms.

  All right. Tromp dropped his hands. Now hit me. Hit me in the face. Go on, hard as you can. Right on the button.

  Let's see you knock me on my back. Manfred dropped his hands and stepped back.

  I can't do that, Uncle Tromp, he protested.

  Can't do what, Jong? What can't you do? couldn't hit you. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be respectful. So we are talking respect now, not boxing. We are talking powder puffs and ladies gloves, are we? Uncle Tromp roared. I thought you wanted to fight. I thought you wanted to be a man and now I find a snot-nosed whining baby. He changed his voice to a cracked falsetto. It wouldn't be right, Uncle Tromp, it wouldn't be respectful, he mimicked.

  Suddenly his right shot out and the open palm b cracked against Manfred's cheek, a stinging slap that left the scarlet imprint of fingers on his skin.

  You're not respectful, Jong. You're yellow. That's what you are, a yellow-bellied whimpering little boy. You're not a man! You'll never be a fighter! The other huge paw blurred with speed, coming so fast and unexpectedly that Manfred barely saw it. The pain of the blow filled his eyes with tears.

  We'll have to find a skirt for you, girlie, a yellow skirt. Uncle Tromp was watching him carefully, watching his eyes, praying silently for it to happen as he poured withering contempt on the sturdy youth who retreated, bewildered and uncertain. He followed and struck again, cutting Manfred's lower lip, splitting the soft skin against his teeth, leaving a smear of blood down his chin.

  Come on! he exhorted silently, behind the jeering flood of insults. Come on, please, come on! Then with a great explosion of joy that filled his chest to bursting, he saw it happen. Manfred dropped his chin, and his eyes changed. Suddenly they glowed with a cold yellow light, implacable as the stare of a lion in the moment before it launches its charge, and the youth came at him.

  Though he had been waiting for it, expecting it, praying for it, still the speed and savagery of the attack caught Uncle Tromp off balance. Only the old fighter's instinct saved him, and he deflected that first murderous assault, sensing the power in the fists that grazed his temple and ruffled his beard as they passed, and for the first few desperate seconds

  there was no time for thought. All his wits and attention were needed to stay on his feet and keep the cold, ferocious animal he had created at bay.

  Then experience and ring-craft, long forgotten, reasserted themselves, and he ducked and dodged and danced easily just beyond the boy's reach, deflecting the wild punches, watching objectively as though he sat in a ringside seat, assessing with rising delight the way in which the untutored youth used either fist with equal power and dexterity.

  A natural two-handed puncher! He doesn't favour his right, and he gets his shoulders behind every punch without being taught how! he exulted.

  Then he looked again at the eyes and felt a chill of awe at what he had loosed upon the world.

  He's a killer. He recognized it. He has the instinct of the leopard who kills for the taste of blood and the simple joy of it. He no longer sees me. He sees only the prey before him. That knowledge had distracted him. He caught a right-hander on his upper arm and it jarred the teeth in his jaws and the bones of his ankles. He knew it would bruise him from the shoulder to the elbow, and his breath burned in his throat. His legs were turning to lead. He could feel his heart drumming against his ribs. Twenty-two years since he had been in the ring; twenty-two years of Trudi's cooking and his most vigorous exercise undertaken either at his desk or in the pulpit, while the youth before him was like a machine, boring in remorselessly, both fists swinging, those yellow eyes fixed upon him in a murderous myopic stare.

  Uncle Tromp gathered himself, waited for the opening as Manfred swung right-handed, and then he counter-punched with his left, always his best, the same blow that had dropped black Jephta in the third, and it went in with that beautiful little click of bone against bone.

  Manfred dropped to his knees, stunned, the killing yellow light fading from his eyes to be replaced by a dull bemused look, as though awakening from a trance.

  That's it, Jong. The Trumpet of God's fine note was reduced to a breathy gasp. Down on your knees and give thanks to your Maker. Uncle Tromp lowered his bulk beside Manfred and placed a thick arm around his shoulders. He raised his face and his unsteady voice to heaven. Almighty God, we give You thanks for the strong body with which You have endowed Your young servant. We give You thanks also for his natural left, while realizing that it will need a lot of hard work - and we humbly beseech You to look favourably upon our efforts to instil in him even the rudiments of footwork. His right hand is a blessing directly from You, for which we will always be eternally grateful, though he will have to learn not to telegraph it five days in advance of the punch. Manfred was still shaking his head and rubbing his jaw, but he responded to the probing thumb in his ribs with a fervent Amen. We will begin roadwork immediately, O Lord, while we set up a ring in the tool-shed in which to learn the ropes, and we humbly beseech Your blessing on our enterprise and Your cooperation in keeping it from coming to the notice of Your servant's partner in holy matrimony, Trudi Bierman. Most afternoons, under the pretext of visiting one of his parishioners, Uncle Bierman would put the pony in the trap and drive out of the front gate with a flourish, waving to his wife on the front stoep. Manfred would be waiting at the clump of camel-thorn trees beside the main Windhoek road, already barefoot and stripped to khaki shorts, and he would trot out and fall in beside the trap as Uncle Tromp shook the fat pony into a canter.

  five miles today, Jong, down to the river bridge and back, and we'll do it a bit faster than yesterday. The gloves that Uncle Tromp had smuggled down from the trunk in the loft were cracked with age, but they patched them with wood-glue and the first time he laced them onto Manfred's hands he watched while the lad lifted them to his nose and sniffed them.

  The smell of leather and sweat and blood, long. Fill your nostrils with it. You'll live with it from now on. Manfred punched the tattered old gloves together, and for a moment that flat yellow light glowed in his eyes again, then he grinned.

  They feel good, he said.

  Nothing feels better, Uncle Tromp agreed, and led him to the heavy canvas kitbag filled with river sand that hung from the rafters in the corner of the tool-shed.

  To begin with I want to see that left hand do some work.

  it's like a wild horse; we have to break it and train it, teach it not to waste strength and effort. it has to learn to do our bidding, not flap around in the air. They built the ring together, quarter-full size for the tool-shed would take no more, and they sank the corner poles deep in the earthern floor and cemented them in. Then they stretched a sheet of canvas over the floor. The canvas and the cement had been commandeered from one of Uncle Tromp's wealthy parishioners, For the glory of God and the VoLk, an appeal that could not be lightly dismissed.

  Sarah, sworn to secrecy by the most solemn and dreadful oath that Manfred and Uncle Tromp could concoct between them, was allowed to watch the ring-work, even though she was a thoroughly partisan audience and she cheered shrilly and shamelessly for the younger participant.

  After two of these sessions, which left Uncle Tromp unmarked but blowing like a steam engine, he shook his head ruefully. It's no use, Jong, either we have to find you another sparring partner, or I'll have to start training again myself., Thereafter the pony was left tethered in the camel-thorn clump and Uncle Tromp grunted and gasped beside Manfred on the long runs, while the sweat fell from his beard like the first rains of summer.

  However, his protuberant gut shrivelled miraculously, and soon from under the layers of soft fat that covered his shoulders and chest the outline of hard muscle reappeared. />
  Gradually they stepped up the rounds from two to four minutes with Sarah, elected official timekeeper, measuring each round with Uncle Tromp's cheap silver pocket watch which made up for its dubious accuracy by its size.

  It was almost a month before Uncle Tromp could say to himself, though he would never have dreamed of saying it to Manfred, He is starting to look like a boxer now., Instead he said: Now I want speed.

  I want you to be fast as a mamba brave as a ratel. The mamba was the most dreaded of all Africa's serpents.

  It could grow as thick as a man's wrist and reach twenty feet in length. Its venom could inflict death on a fully grown man in four minutes, an excruciating death. The mamba was so swift that it could overhaul a galloping horse, and the strike was so swift as to cheat the eye.

  Fast as a mamba, brave as a ratel,Uncle Tromp repeated, as he would a hundred, a thousand times in the years ahead.

  The ratel was the African honey badger, a small animal with a loose but thick tough skin that could defy the bite of a mastiff or the fangs of a leopard, a massive flattened skull from which the heaviest club bounced harmlessly, and the heart of a lion, the courage of a giant. Normally mild and forbearing, it would fearlessly attack the largest adversary the instant that it was provoked. Legend had it that the ratel possessed an instinct for the groin and that it would rush in and rip the testicles out of any male animal, man or bull buffalo or lion, who threatened it.

  I've got something to show you, Jong. Uncle Tromp led Manfred to the big wooden chest against the back wall of the tool-shed and opened the lid. It's for you. I ordered it by mail order from Cape Town. It arrived on the train yesterday. He placed the tangle of leather and rubber in Manfred's arms.

  What is it, Uncle Tromp? Come, I'll show you. Within minutes Uncle Tromp had rigged the complicated contraption.

  Well, what do you think, Jong? He stood back, beaming hugely through his beard.

  It's the best present anyone has ever given me, Uncle Tromp. But what is it? You call yourself a boxer and you don't know a speed bag when you see one! A speed bag! It must have cost a lot of money. it did, Jong, but don't tell your Aunt Trudi. What do we do with it? 'This is what we do! cried Uncle Tromp, and he started the bag rattling against the frame in a rapid staccato rhythm, using both fists, taking the ball on the bounce, keeping it going unerringly until at last he stepped back panting.