Power of the Sword

by Wilbur Smith

  That came as a further shock to Centaine. She had not thought about children.

  ‘At least she hasn’t given him a son.’ The thought was so cruel that she assuaged the prickle of guilt by calculating the age of his daughters. ‘I expect that they look like their mother. Horrible little angels that he dotes on,’ she decided bitterly, and read the few comments with which Sir Garry had ended the long cable.

  ‘Enquiries addressed to Ou Baas indicate that subject is considered a rising force in law and politics. Cabinet rank a strong probability when SA Party returns to power.’ Centaine smiled fondly at the mention of General Jan Christian Smuts and then read on:

  Wife thrown from horse 1927. Extensive spinal damage. Prognosis unfavourable. Stop. Father James Marsden left estate probated £655,000 in equal shares to two sons. Stop. Subject’s present financial circumstances not ascertained, but estimated as substantial. Stop. Presently rated 12 goals polo. Captained SA team versus Argentine 1929. Stop. Hope and expect your query business-like. If not implore you exercise restraint and caution as consequences highly prejudicial all parties. Stop. Shasa safely ensconced Bishops. Stop. Anna joins me in sending all love. Ends. Ovid.

  She had selected Sir Garry’s codename out of affection and respect for his craft, but now she threw the telegraph flimsy down on her desk angrily.

  ‘Why does everybody know what’s best for me – except me?’ she asked aloud. ‘And why isn’t Anna here to help me with my hair? I look an absolute fright.’ She looked in the mirror over the mantel for confirmation that it was not true. Then she dragged her hair back from her face with both hands while she studied her skin for blemish or wrinkles. She found only the faintest hairlines at the corners of her eyes yet they made her discontent extreme.

  ‘Why is it that all the most attractive men are already married? And why, oh why couldn’t that silly little namby-pamby have stuck in the saddle instead of falling on her pretty little backside.’

  Centaine had contrived to make a great deal of fuss over Isabella Malcomess’ reception and the transfer of her wheelchair from the platform to the balcony of the coach. She had four of the coach attendants and her secretaries standing by to assist.

  Blaine Malcomess waved them away irritably, then he stooped over his wife. She slipped both her arms around his neck and he lifted her as though she were as light as a little girl. With their faces almost touching he smiled at her tenderly and then went up the steps onto the balcony as though he were unburdened. Isabella’s legs dangled pathetically from under her skirts. They were wasted and lifeless and Centaine experienced an unexpected and unwelcome rush of sympathy for her.

  ‘I don’t want to pity her,’ she thought fiercely as she followed them into the saloon.

  Blaine set her down, without asking Centaine’s permission, in the chair that subtly dominated the saloon and was naturally the focus of all attention, the chair that was always and exclusively reserved for Centaine herself. Blaine went down on one knee before his wife and gently arranged her feet, setting them neatly side by side on the silk carpet. Then he smoothed her skirt over her knees. It was obvious that he had done all this countless times before.

  Isabella touched his cheek lightly with her fingertips, and smiled down on his head with such trust and adoration that Centaine felt entirely superfluous. Despair overwhelmed her. She could not intervene between these two. Sir Garry and Abe were both right. She had to relinquish him without a struggle, and she felt an almost saintly sense of righteousness.

  Then Isabella looked up at Centaine over the head of her kneeling husband. Against the fashion she wore her hair long and straight. It was so fine and silky that it formed a thick sheet, lustrous as watered satin, that flowed down over her bare shoulders. Her hair was the colour of roasted chestnuts, but it flickered with glowing red stars and highlights each time she moved her head. Her face was round as a medieval madonna’s, and lit with serenity. Her eyes were brown and starred with rods of gold that fanned out from the luminous black pupils.

  Isabella looked at Centaine across the full length of the saloon, then she smiled – a slow complacent possessive smile – and the light in her brown and gold eyes changed. She stared into Centaine’s dark wild honey eyes and she challenged her. It was as clear to Centaine as if she had stripped off one of her elbow-length gloves with its embroidered seed pearls and struck Centaine in the mouth with it.

  ‘You silly little thing – you shouldn’t have done that!’ All Centaine’s noble resolutions crumbled before that gaze. ‘I was ready to let you keep him, I truly was. But if you want to fight for him – well then, so do I.’ And she stared back at Isabella and silently took up her challenge.

  The dinner was a resounding success. Centaine had carefully vetted the menu but had not trusted her chef with either the dressing for the rock lobster or the sauce for the roast sirloin and had prepared both of these with her own hands. They drank champagne with the lobster and a marvellous velvety Richebourg with the sirloin.

  Abe and Blaine were relieved and delighted that Isabella and Centaine were being so utterly charming and considerate to each other. It was obvious that they would become close friends. Centaine included the crippled girl in almost every remark she made, and was solicitous of Isabella’s comfort, herself arranging cushions at her back or feet.

  Centaine’s stories were self-mocking and entertaining as she made light of how she had survived the dreadful crossing of the dune lands, widowed and pregnant, with only wild Bushmen as companions.

  ‘How brave of you.’ Isabella Malcomess got the point of the story. ‘I am sure there are very few women who would have had your resourcefulness and strength.’

  ‘Colonel Malcomess, can I prevail on you to carve the roast. Sometimes being a woman alone does have its drawbacks. There are things that only a man does well, wouldn’t you agree, Mrs Malcomess?’

  Rachel Abrahams sat quietly and apprehensively. She was the only one apart from the two principals who understood what was happening, and her sympathy was all with Isabella Malcomess, for she could imagine her own little nest and nestlings being threatened by a circling predator.

  ‘You have two daughters, Mrs Malcomess?’ Centaine asked sweetly. ‘Tara and Mathilda Janine, such pretty names.’ She let her rival know that she had done her researches thoroughly. ‘But you must find it difficult to cope, girls being always much more of a handful than boys?’

  Rachel Abrahams, at the end of the table, winced. With a single light flick of the blade Centaine had pointed up Isabella’s disability and her failure to provide a son and heir for her husband.

  ‘Oh, I have plenty of time to devote to my domestic duties,’ Isabella assured her, ‘not being in trade, as it were. And the girls are such darlings, they are devoted to their father, of course.’

  Isabella was a skilled duellist. ‘Trade’ was a word that made Centaine’s aristocratic blood seethe behind her concerned smile, and it was a master stroke to link the girls so securely to Blaine. Centaine had seen his doting expression at mention of them. She turned to him and changed the subject to politics.

  ‘Recently General Smuts was a guest at Weltevreden, my Cape home. He is deeply concerned by the growth of secret militant societies amongst the lower classes of Afrikanerdom. In particular the so-called Ossewa-Brandwag and the Afrikaner Broederbond, the best translation of which would be the “Nightguard of the Wagon Train” and the “Afrikaner Brotherhood”. I also feel they are highly dangerous and prejudicial to the nation’s best interests. Do you share this concern, Colonel Malcomess?’

  ‘Indeed, Mrs Courtney, I have made a special study of these phenomena. But I do not think that you are correct in saying these secret societies include the lower classes of Afrikanerdom, quite the opposite. The membership is restricted to pure-blooded Afrikaners in positions of potential or actual influence in politics, government, religion and education. However, I agree with your conclusions. They are dangerous, more dangerous than most people realize, for their u
ltimate aim is to gain control of every facet of our lives, from the minds of the young to the machinery of justice and government, and to prefer their members above all consideration of merit or worth. In many ways this movement is the counterpart of the rising wave of National Socialism in Germany under Herr Hitler.’

  Centaine leaned across the table to enjoy every nuance and inflection of his voice, encouraging him with question or shrewd sharp comment. With that voice, she thought, he could sway me and a million voters. Then she realized that the two of them were behaving as if they were the only ones at the table and she returned quickly to Isabella.

  ‘Would you agree with your husband on that, Mrs Malcomess?’ and Blaine laughed indulgently and answered for her.

  ‘I’m afraid my wife finds politics a total bore, don’t you, my dear? And I’m not sure that she isn’t very perceptive in that belief.’ He drew a gold watch from the fob pocket of his dinner jacket.

  ‘It is after midnight. I have enjoyed myself so hugely that we have overstayed our welcome, I’m sure.’

  ‘You are right, darling.’ Isabella was relieved and eager to end it. ‘Tara has been sickly. She complained of a stomach ache before we left.’

  ‘Tara, the little vixen, always complains of a stomach ache when she knows we are going out,’ he chuckled, but they all rose.

  ‘I won’t let you go without the solace of a brandy and a cigar,’ Centaine demurred. ‘Although I refuse to accept the barbaric custom of leaving the men to those pleasures alone while we poor females gather to giggle and talk babies so we will all go through to the saloon together.’

  However, as she led them through, her secretary was hovering nervously.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ She was annoyed until she saw that he was holding a telegraph flimsy like a warrant for his own execution.

  ‘From Dr Twentyman-Jones, ma’am, and it’s urgent.’

  She accepted the flimsy but did not unfold it until she had made sure that her guests had coffee and liqueurs and that both Blaine and Abe were each armed with a Havana. Then she excused herself and slipped through to her bedroom.

  For Juno. Strike committee headed by Gerhard Fourie has called out all white employees. Stop. Plant and pit under picket lines and shipment of goods embargoed. Stop. Strikers demanding reinstatement of all retrenched white employees and guaranteed job security for all. Stop. Request your instructions. Ends. Vingt.

  Centaine sat down on her bed. The paper in her hand fluttered. She had never been more angry in her life. It was treachery, a gross and unforgivable betrayal. It was her mine, they were her diamonds. She paid their wages, and hers was the absolute right to hire and fire. ‘The shipment of goods’ that Twentyman-Jones referred to was the parcel of diamonds on which her fortune hinged. Their demands, if pandered to, would render the H’ani Mine unprofitable. Who was this Gerhard Fourie, she wondered, and then remembered he was the chief transport driver.

  She went to the door and opened it. Her secretary was waiting in the corridor.

  ‘Ask Mr Abrahams to come to me.’

  When Abe stepped through the door she handed him the telegraph flimsy.

  ‘They don’t have the right to do this to me,’ she said fiercely, and waited impatiently while he read it through.

  ‘Unfortunately, Centaine, they do have the right. Under the Industrial Conciliation Act of 1924—’

  ‘Don’t spout acts at me now, Abe,’ she cut him off. ‘They are a bunch of bolsheviks biting the hand that feeds them.’

  ‘Centaine, don’t do anything hasty. If we were to—’

  ‘Abe, get the Daimler offloaded from the truck immediately and send Dr Twentyman-Jones a telegraph. Tell him I’m coming and he is to do nothing, make no concessions nor promises until I arrive.’

  ‘You’ll leave in the morning, of course?’

  ‘I will not,’ she snapped. ‘I will leave in half an hour from now, just as soon as my guests have gone and you have the Daimler detrained.’

  ‘It’s one in the morning—’ He saw her face and abandoned that line of protest. ‘I’ll telegraph the staff at the first staging station to expect you.’

  ‘Just tell them to be ready to refuel. I won’t be staying over. I’m driving straight through to the mine.’ And she went to the door, paused to compose herself and then, smiling easily, went back into the saloon.

  ‘Is something wrong, Mrs Courtney?’ The smile had not deceived Blaine Malcomess, and he rose to his feet. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you?’

  ‘Oh, just a small nuisance. Trouble out at the mine. I have to go back there right away.’

  ‘Not tonight, surely?’

  ‘Yes, tonight—’

  ‘On your own?’ He was troubled, and his concern pleased her. ‘It’s a long hard journey.’

  ‘I prefer to travel alone.’ Then she added with a meaningful intensity, ‘Or to chose my travelling companion with great care.’ She paused, then went on, ‘Some of my employees have called a strike. It’s unreasonable and they have no case to justify their action. I’m certain that I can smooth it over. However, sometimes these things get out of hand. There might be violence, or vandalism.’

  Quickly Blaine reassured her. ‘I can guarantee you full government co-operation. A police detachment could be sent to maintain the peace, if you so wish.’

  ‘Thank you. I would appreciate that. Knowing that I can call upon you is a great relief and comfort.’

  ‘I will arrange it first thing tomorrow,’ he said. ‘But of course it will take a few days.’ Again they were behaving as though they were alone; their voices were low and filled with significance beyond what the words suggested.

  ‘Darling, we should leave Mrs Courtney to prepare for her journey.’ Isabella spoke from her chair and he started as though he had forgotten she were there.

  ‘Yes, of course. We will leave at once.’

  Centaine went with them down the railway platform to where Blaine’s Chevrolet tourer was parked beneath the single streetlight. She walked beside Isabella’s wheelchair.

  ‘I did so enjoy meeting you, Mrs Malcomess, and I’d love to meet your girls. Won’t you bring them out to Weltevreden when next you are in Cape Town?’

  ‘I don’t know when that will be,’ Isabella refused politely. ‘My husband will be immersed in his new appointment.’

  They reached the waiting vehicle and while the chauffeur held the rear door open, Blaine lifted Isabella from the chair and seated her on the leather seat. He closed the door carefully and turned to Centaine. His back was to his wife, and the chauffeur was loading the wheelchair into the boot. They were alone for the time being.

  ‘She is a courageous and wonderful woman,’ he said softly as he took Centaine’s hand. ‘I love her and can never leave her, but I wish—’ he broke off and his grip on her fingers was painful.

  ‘Yes,’ Centaine answered as softly. ‘I also wish—’ and she revelled in the pain of his grip. He ended it too soon for her and went around to the opposite side of the Chevrolet, while Centaine stooped to the crippled girl at the open window.

  ‘Please do remember my invitation,’ she began, but Isabella thrust her face closer and the serene and beautiful mask cracked so that the terror and the hatred showed through.

  ‘He’s mine,’ she said. ‘And I won’t let you have him.’ Then she leaned back in her seat and Blaine slid in beside her and took her hand.

  The Chevrolet pulled away, the official pennant on the bonnet fluttering, and Centaine stood under the streetlight and stared after it until the headlights faded.

  Lothar De La Rey slept with the earphones of the telegraph tap on the sheepskin roll beside his head, so that the first bleep of the transmission woke him and he snatched up the headset and called to Swart Hendrick. ‘Light the candle, Hennie, they are transmitting. At this time of night it must be important.’

  Yet he was still unprepared for the import of the message when he scribbled it out in his notebook: ‘Strike Committee headed b
y Gerhard Fourie has called out all white employees—’

  Lothar was stunned by Twentyman-Jones’ message.

  ‘Gerhard Fourie. What on earth is that miserable bastard playing at,’ he asked himself aloud, and then leapt up and went out of the dugout to pace agitatedly in the loose sand of the riverbed while he attempted to work it out.

  ‘A strike – why would he call a strike now? Shipment of goods embargoed. That has to mean the diamonds. The strikers are refusing to let the diamonds leave the mine.’ He stopped suddenly and punched his fist into his own palm. ‘That’s it. That’s what it’s all about. He has called the strike to worm himself out of our bargain. His nerve has given in, but he knows I will kill him for it. This is his way out. He isn’t going to co-operate. The whole thing has fallen through.’

  He stood out in the riverbed and a dark impotent rage overwhelmed him.

  ‘All the risks I have taken, all the time and work and hardship. The theft of the horses, all for nothing, all wasted because of one yellow-bellied—’

  If Fourie had been there he would have shot him down without compunction.

  ‘Baas!’ Hendrick yelled urgently. ‘Come quickly! The telegraph!’

  Lother sprinted back to the dugout and snatched up the headset. The operator at the Courtney Mining and Finance Company in Windhoek was transmitting.

  ‘For Vingt. I am returning with all speed. Stop. Make no concessions nor promises. Stop. See that all loyal employees are armed and protected from intimidation. Stop. Assure them of my gratitude and material appreciation. Stop. Close the company store immediately, no food or supplies to be sold to strikers or their families. Stop. Cut off water reticulation and electricity supply to strikers’ cottages. Stop. Inform Strike Committee that police detachment en route. Ends. Juno.’