Power of the Sword

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘I have known Lothar De La Rey for nearly fourteen years.’ Centaine looked across the room at the stooped grey figure in the dock.

  ‘Would you be good enough to describe, in your own words, the circumstances of your first meeting.’

  ‘It was in 1919. I was lost in the desert. I had been a castaway on the Skeleton Coast after the sinking of the Protea Castle. For a year and a half I had been wandering in the Kalahari desert with a small group of San Bushmen.’ All of them knew the story. At the time it had been a sensation, but now Centaine’s narrative, related in her French accent, brought it all vividly to life.

  She conjured up the desolation and misery, the fearful hardships and loneliness that she had endured, and the room was deathly quiet. Even Judge Hawthorne was hunched down in his chair, supporting his chin on his clenched fist, absolutely still as he listened. They were all with her as she struggled through the clinging sand of the Kalahari, dressed in the skins of wild animals, her infant son on her hip, following the tracks of a horse, a shod horse, the first sign of civilized man that she had encountered in all those desperate months.

  They chilled with her and shared her despair as the African night fell across the desert and her chances of succour receded; they willed her onwards, through the darkness, seeking the glow of a camp-fire far ahead, then started in horror as she described the sinister shape, dark with menace, that suddenly confronted her, and flinched as though they also had heard the roar of a hungry lion close at hand.

  Her audience gasped and stirred as she described her fight for her life and the life of her infant; the way the circling lion drove her up into the highest branches of a tall mopani and then climbed up towards her like a cat after a sparrow. Centaine described the sound of its hot panting breath in the darkness and at last the shooting agony as the long yellow claws hooked into the flesh of her leg and she was drawn inexorably from her perch.

  She could not go on, and Mr Osmond prompted her gently. ‘Was it at this stage that Lothar De La Rey intervened?’

  Centaine roused herself. ‘I’m sorry. It all came back to me—’

  ‘Please, Mrs Courtney, do not tax yourself.’ Judge Hawthorne rushed to her aid. ‘I will recess the court if you need time—’

  ‘No, no, my lord. You are very kind, but that won’t be necessary.’ She squared her shoulders and faced them again. ‘Yes, that was when Lothar De La Rey came up. He had been camped close at hand, and was alerted by the roars of the animal. He shot the lion dead while it was in the act of savaging me.’

  ‘He saved your life, Mrs Courtney.’

  ‘He saved me from a dreadful death, and he saved my child with me.’

  Mr Osmond bowed his head in silence, letting the court savour the full drama of the moment, then he asked gently: ‘What happened after that, madam?’

  ‘I was concussed by my fall from the tree; the wound in my leg mortified. I was unconscious for many days, unable to care for myself or my son.’

  ‘What was the prisoner’s reaction to this?’

  ‘He cared for me. He dressed my wounds. Tended every need of mine and of my child.’

  ‘He saved your life a second time?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘He saved me once again.’

  ‘Now, Mrs Courtney. The years passed. You became a wealthy lady, a millionairess?’

  Centaine was silent, and Osmond went on. ‘Then one day three years ago the prisoner approached you for financial assistance for his fishing and canning enterprise. Is that correct?’

  ‘He approached my company, Courtney Mining and Finance, for a loan,’ she said, and Osmond led her through the series of events up to the time that she had closed down Lothar’s canning factory.

  ‘So, Mrs Courtney, would you say that Lothar De La Rey had reason to believe that he had been unfairly treated, if not deliberately ruined by your action?’

  Centaine hesitated. ‘My actions were at all times based on sound business principles. However, I would readily concede that from Lothar De La Rey’s standpoint, it could have seemed that my actions were deliberate.’

  ‘At the time, did he accuse you of attempting to destroy him?’

  She looked down at her hands and whispered something.

  ‘I am sorry, Mrs Courtney. I must ask you to repeat that.’

  And she flared at him, her voice cracking with strain. ‘Yes, damn it. He said that I was doing it to destroy him.’

  ‘Mr Osmond!’ The judge sat up straight, his expression severe. ‘I must insist that you treat your witness in a more considerate fashion.’ He sank back in his seat, clearly moved by Centaine’s recital, and then raised his voice again. ‘I will recess the court for fifteen minutes to allow Mrs Courtney time to recover herself.’

  When they reconvened, Centaine entered the witness stand again and sat quietly while the formalities were completed and Mr Osmond prepared to continue his examination.

  From the third row Blaine Malcomess smiled at her encouragingly, and she knew that if she did not look away from him every single person in the courtroom would be aware of her feelings. She forced herself to break contact with his eyes and instead looked up at the gallery above his head.

  It was an idle glance. She had forgotten the way in which Lothar De La Rey searched the gallery each morning, but now she was seeing it from the same angle as he did from the dock. And suddenly her eyes flicked to the furthest corner of the gallery, drawn irresistibly by another set of eyes, by the intensity of a glowering gaze that was fastened upon her, and she started and then swayed in her seat, giddy with shock, for she had stared once again into Lothar’s eyes: Lothar’s eyes as they had been when first she met him, yellow as topaz, fierce and bright, with dark brows arched over them – young eyes, unforgettable, unforgotten eyes. But the eyes were not set in Lothar’s face, for Lothar sat across the courtroom from her, bowed and broken and grey. This face was young, strong and full of hatred, and she knew, she knew with a mother’s sure instinct. She had never seen her younger son – at her insistence, he had been taken away, wet from the womb, at the very moment of birth, and she had turned her head away so as not to see his squirming naked body. But now she knew him, and it was as though the very core of her existence, the womb which had contained him, ached at this glimpse of his face, and she had to cover her mouth to prevent herself crying out with the pain of it.

  ‘Mrs Courtney! Mrs Courtney!’ The judge was calling her, his tone quickening with alarm, and she forced herself to turn her head towards him.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Courtney? Are you feeling well enough to continue?’

  ‘Thank you, my lord, I am quite well.’ Her voice seemed to come from a great distance, and it took all her willpower not to look back at the youth in the gallery – at her son, Manfred.

  ‘Very well, Mr Osmond. You may proceed.’

  It required an enormous effort of will for Centaine to concentrate on the questions as Osmond led her once more over the robbery and the struggle in the dry riverbed.

  ‘So then, Mrs Courtney, he did not lay a finger upon you until you attempted to reach the shotgun?’

  ‘No. He did not touch me until then.’

  ‘You have already told us that you had the shotgun in your hand and were attempting to reload the weapon.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Would you have used the weapon if you had succeeded in reloading it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell us, Mrs Courtney, would you have shot to kill?’

  ‘I object, my lord!’ The prosecutor sprang angrily to his feet. ‘That question is hypothetical.’

  ‘Mrs Courtney, you do not have to answer that question, if you do not choose,’ Judge Hawthorne told her.

  ‘I will answer.’ Centaine said clearly, ‘Yes, I would have killed him.’

  ‘Do you think the prisoner knew that?’

  ‘My lord, I object. The witness cannot possibly know.’

  Before the judge could rule, Centaine said clea
rly, ‘He knew me, he knew me well. He knew I would kill him if I had the chance.’

  The pent-up emotion of the courtroom exploded in ghoulish relish and it was almost a minute before quiet could be restored. In the confusion Centaine looked up at the corner of the high gallery again. It had taken all her self-control not to do so before.

  The corner seat was empty. Manfred had gone, and she felt confused by his desertion. Osmond was questioning her again, and she turned to him vaguely.

  ‘I’m sorry. Will you repeat that, please?’

  ‘I asked, Mrs Courtney, if the prisoner’s assault on you, as you stood there with the shotgun in your hands intent on killing him—’

  ‘My lord, I object. The witness was intent only on defending herself and her property,’ the prosecutor howled.

  ‘You’ll have to rephrase that question, Mr Osmond.’

  ‘Very well, my lord. Mrs Courtney, was the force that the prisoner used against you inconsistent with that needed to disarm you?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Centaine could not concentrate. She wanted to search the gallery again. ‘I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘Did the prisoner use more force than that necessary to disarm you and prevent you shooting him?’

  ‘No. He simply pulled the shotgun away from me.’

  ‘And later when you had bitten his wrist. When you had buried your teeth in his flesh, inflicting a wound that later would result in the amputation of his arm, did he strike you or inflict any other injury upon you in retaliation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The pain must have been intense, and yet he did not use undue force upon you?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘He was—’ Centaine searched for the word, ‘ – he was strangely considerate, almost gentle.’

  ‘I see. And before he left you, did the prisoner make sure that you had sufficient water for survival? And did he give you advice concerning your well-being?’

  ‘He checked that I had sufficient spare water, and he advised me to stay with the wrecked vehicle until I was rescued.’

  ‘Now, Mrs Courtney,’ Osmond hesitated delicately. ‘There has been speculation in the press that the prisoner might have made some form of indecent assault—’

  Centaine interrupted him furiously. ‘That suggestion is repugnant and totally false.’

  ‘Thank you, madam. I have only one more question. You knew the prisoner well. You accompanied him while he was hunting to provide meat for you and your child once he had rescued you. You saw him shoot?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘In your opinion, if the prisoner had wanted to kill you or Colonel Malcomess, or any of the police officers pursuing him, could he have done so?’

  ‘Lothar De La Rey is one of the finest marksmen I have ever known. He could have killed all of us on more than one occasion.’

  ‘I have no further questions, my lord.’

  Judge Hawthorne wrote at length on the notepad before him and then tapped his pencil thoughtfully upon the desk for another few seconds before he looked up at the prosecutor.

  ‘Do you wish to cross-examine the witness?’

  The prosecutor came to his feet scowling sulkily. ‘I have no further questions for Mrs Courtney.’

  He sat down again, folded his arms and stared angrily at the revolving punkah fan on the ceiling.

  ‘Mrs Courtney, the court is grateful to you for your further evidence. You may now return to your seat.’

  Centaine was so intent on searching the gallery for her son that she tripped on the steps at the foot of the tiers of benches and both Blaine and Abe jumped up to help her. Abe reached her first and Blaine sank back into his seat as Abe led Centaine to hers.

  ‘Abe,’ she whispered urgently. ‘There was a lad in the gallery while I was giving evidence. Blond, around thirteen years old, though he looks more like seventeen. His name is Manfred – Manfred De La Rey. Find him. I want to speak to him.’

  ‘Now?’ Abe looked surprised.

  ‘Right now.’

  ‘The submission in mitigation. I’ll miss it.’

  ‘Go!’ she snapped. ‘Find him.’ And Abe jumped up, bowed to the bench and hurried out of the courtroom just as Mr Reginald Osmond rose to his feet once again.

  Osmond spoke with passion and sincerity, using Centaine’s evidence to full advantage, repeating her exact words: ‘“He saved me from a dreadful death, and he saved my child with me.”’ Osmond paused significantly and then went on. ‘The prisoner believed that he deserved the gratitude and generosity of Mrs Courtney. He placed himself in her power by borrowing money from her, and he came to believe – mistakenly, but genuinely – that his trust in her had been betrayed.’ His eloquent plea for mercy went on for almost half an hour, but Centaine found herself thinking of Manfred rather than the plight of his father. The look which the boy had levelled at her from the gallery troubled her deeply. The hatred in it had been a palpable thing and it resuscitated her sense of guilt, a guilt which she believed she had buried so many years before.

  ‘He will be alone now. He will need help,’ she thought. ‘I have to find him. I have to try and make it up to him in some way.’

  She realized then why she had so steadfastly denied the boy over all these years, why she had thought of him only as ‘Lothar’s bastard’, why she had gone to extreme lengths to avoid any contact with him. Her instinct had been correct. Just a single glimpse of his face and all the defences which she had built up so carefully came tumbling down, all the natural feelings of a mother which she had buried so deeply were revived to overwhelm her.

  ‘Find him for me, Abe,’ she whispered, and then realized that Reginald Osmond had completed his submission with a final plea: ‘Lothar De La Rey felt that he had been grievously wronged. As a result, he committed a series of crimes which were abhorrent and indefensible. However, my lord, many of his actions prove that he was a decent and compassionate man, caught up in stormy emotions and events too powerful for him to resist. His sentence must be severe. Society demands that much. But I appeal to your lordship to show a little of the same Christian compassion that Mrs Courtney has displayed here today, and to refrain from visiting upon this hapless man, who has already lost one of his limbs, the extreme penalty of the law.’

  He sat down in a silence that lasted for many long seconds, until Judge Hawthorne looked up from the reverie into which he had sunk.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Osmond. This court will recess and reconvene at two o’clock this afternoon, at which time we will impose sentence.’

  Centaine hurried from the courtroom, searching eagerly for Abe or for another glimpse of her son. She found Abe on the front steps of the courthouse, in deep conversation with one of the police guards. But he broke off and came to her immediately.

  ‘Did you find him?’ she demanded anxiously.

  ‘I’m sorry, Centaine. No sign of anyone of that description.’

  ‘I want the boy found and brought to me, Abe. Use as many men as you need. I don’t care what it costs. Search the town. Do everything possible to find him. He must be staying somewhere.’

  ‘All right, Centaine. I’ll get on to it right away. You say his name is Manfred De La Rey – then he will be related to the prisoner?’

  ‘His son,’ she said.

  ‘I see.’ Abe looked at her thoughtfully. ‘May I ask why you want him so desperately, Centaine? And what you are going to do with him when you find him?’

  ‘No, you may not ask. Just find him.’

  ‘Why do I want him?’ she repeated Abe’s question to herself wonderingly. ‘Why do I want him after all these years?’ And the answer was simple and self-evident. ‘Because he is my son.

  ‘And what will I do with him if I find him? He is poisoned against me. He hates me. I saw that in his eyes. He does not know who I really am. I saw that also. So what will I do when I meet him face to face,’ and she answered herself as simply: ‘I don’t know, I just do not know.’

  ‘The maximum penalty
provided by law for the first three offences on the prisoner’s charge sheet is death by hanging,’ said Judge Hawthorne. ‘The prisoner has been found guilty of these and the further offences with which he has been charged. In the normal course of events this court would have had no hesitation in inflicting that supreme penalty upon him. However, we have been given pause by the extraordinary evidence of an extraordinary lady. The submissions made voluntarily by Mrs Centaine de Thiry Courtney are all the more remarkable for the fact that she has suffered most grievously at the prisoner’s hands – physically, emotionally and materially – and also for the fact that her admissions might be construed by small-minded and mean persons as invidious to Mrs Courtney herself.

  ‘In twenty-three years’ service on the bench I have never been privileged to witness such a noble and magnanimous performance in any courtroom, and our own deliberations must, by necessity, be tempered by Mrs Courtney’s example.’ Judge Hawthorne bowed slightly towards where Centaine sat, then took the pince-nez from his nose and looked at Lothar De La Rey.

  ‘The prisoner will rise,’ he said.

  ‘Lothar De La Rey, you have been found guilty of all the various charges brought against you by the Crown, and for purpose of sentence, these will be taken as one. It is, therefore, the sentence of this court that you be imprisoned at hard labour for the rest of your natural life.’

  For the first time since the beginning of the trial, Lothar De La Rey showed emotion. He recoiled from the judge’s words. His face began to work, his lips trembling, one eyelid twitched uncontrollably, and he lifted his remaining hand, palm up, in appeal towards the dark-robed figure on the bench.

  ‘Kill me, rather.’ A wild heart-cry. ‘Hang me rather than lock me up like an animal—’

  The warders hurried to him, seized him from either side and led him shaking and calling out piteously from the dock, while a hush of sympathy held the whole room. Even the judge was affected, his features set and grim as he stood up and slowly led his assessors from the room. Centaine remained sitting, staring at the empty dock as the subdued crowd filed out of the double doors like mourners leaving a funeral.