Power of the Sword

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Blaine,’ she said softly. ‘I am selling Weltevreden.’

  He opened his eyes, caught her wrist and sat up quickly. ‘Selling?’ he demanded. ‘Why?’

  ‘I have to,’ she answered simply. ‘The estate, the house and everything in it.’

  ‘But why, my darling? I know how much it means to you. Why sell it?’

  ‘Yes, Weltevreden means a great deal to me,’ she agreed. ‘But the H’ani Mine means more. If I sell the estate, there is just a chance, a very small chance, that I will be able to save the mine.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ he said gently. ‘I had no idea things were that bad.’

  ‘How could you know, my love?’ She caressed his face. ‘Nobody else does.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. The H’ani Mine – surely it is making profits sufficient—’

  ‘No, Blaine. Nobody is buying diamonds nowadays. Nobody is buying anything any more. This depression, this terrible depression! Our quota has been slashed. The prices we are being paid for our stones are less than half of what they were five years ago. The H’ani Mine is not quite breaking even. It is losing a small amount every month. But if I can hold on until the economy of the world turns around—’ she broke off. ‘The only chance I have of doing that is by selling Weltevreden. That is all I have left to sell. That way I might be able to hold on until the middle of next year, and surely this terrible depression must be over by then!’

  ‘Yes, of course it will!’ he agreed readily, and then after a pause, ‘I have some money, Centaine—’

  She laid her fingers on his lips, smiled sadly and shook her head.

  He lifted her hand away from his mouth and insisted, ‘If you love me then you must let me help you.’

  ‘Our bargain, Blaine,’ she reminded him. ‘Nobody else must be hurt. That money belongs to Isabella and the girls.’

  ‘It belongs to me,’ he said. ‘And if I choose—’

  ‘Blaine! Blaine!’ she stopped him. ‘A million pounds might save me now – a million pounds! Do you have that much? Any lesser amount would be wasted, simply disappear into the bottomless pit of my debts.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘So much?’ Then he admitted regretfully, ‘No. I don’t have a third part of that, Centaine.’

  ‘Then we will not speak of it again,’ she told him firmly. ‘Now show me how to catch crayfish for dinner. I don’t want to talk of anything unpleasant for the rest of our time together. There will be plenty of time for ugliness when I get home.’

  On their last afternoon they climbed the slope behind the shack, wading hand in hand through the bright banks of wild blooms. The pollen painted their legs the colour of saffron and the bees rose in noisy swarms as they disturbed them, then resettled as they passed on.

  ‘Look, Blaine, see how every flower turns its head to follow the sun as it moves across the sky. I am like one of them, and you are my sun, my love.’

  They wandered along the slope, and Blaine plucked the choicest blooms and plaited them into a crown. He placed it on her head. ‘I crown you Queen of my heart,’ he intoned, and though he smiled when he said it, his eyes were serious.

  They made love lying on the mattress of wild flowers, crushing the stems and leaves beneath them, enveloped in the herby aroma of their juices and the perfume of their blooms, and afterwards Centaine asked him as she lay in his arms, ‘Do you know what I’m going to do?’

  ‘Tell me,’ he invited, his voice drowsy from their loving.

  ‘I’m going to give them something to talk about,’ she said. A year from now they may say, “Centaine Courtney went out,” but they’ll have to add, “but she went out in style.”’

  ‘What do you propose?’

  ‘Instead of the usual Christmas high jinks, I’m going to throw a bash to end all bashes! Open house at Weltevreden for a week, champagne and dancing every night.’

  ‘It will also throw the creditors off the scent for a while longer,’ he grinned at her. ‘But I don’t suppose you had thought of that, had you? You devious little vixen.’

  ‘That’s not the only reason. It will give us an excuse to be together in public. You will be there, won’t you?’

  ‘That depends.’ He was serious again, and they both knew it depended on Isabella, but he did not say it. ‘I’d have to find a pretty good excuse.’

  ‘I’ll give you an excuse,’ she said excitedly. ‘I’ll make it a polo week – a twenty-goal tournament. I’ll invite teams from all over the country, all the top players. You are the national captain. You could not reasonably refuse, could you?’

  ‘I don’t see how,’ he agreed. ‘Talk about devious!’ And he shook his head in admiration.

  ‘It will give you a chance to meet Shasa. I told you he had been pestering me ever since he heard that I knew you.’

  ‘That I’d enjoy.’

  ‘You will have to put up with a bit of hero-worship.’

  ‘You could invite a few junior teams,’ Blaine suggested. ‘Give them a tournament of their own. I’d like to watch your son ride.’

  ‘Oh, Blaine! What a wonderful idea!’ She clapped her hands excitedly. ‘My poor darling. It will probably be Shasa’s last chance to ride his own ponies. Of course, I will have to sell them when I sell Weltevreden.’ The shadows were in her eyes again for a moment, but then she rallied and her eyes sparkled. ‘But as I said, we’ll go out in style.’

  Shasa’s team, the Weltevreden Invitation, under 16 years, had won through to the final round of the junior league, mostly by virtue of their handicap allowance. Shasa was the only plus player. Of the other three members of the team, two were scratch handicaps and the third was a minus one.

  However, they had finally come up against the Natal Juniors, four of the top youngsters, all of them two- and three-goal players except their captain. Max Theunissen had only made the age limit by a few months. He was rated five goals, the best in Africa for his age, with height and weight in the saddle, a good eye and a powerful wrist. He used all these advantages to the full, adopting a hard driving style of play.

  Shasa was the next best rated player in the country, at four goals, but he lacked the older boy’s weight and strength. Max was backed by his strong team-mates, and all Shasa’s skill and determination were not sufficient to prevent his team crumbling under the onslaught, leaving Shasa virtually unaided to try and stem the rout.

  In five chukkas Max had pounded in nine goals against Shasa’s best efforts in defence, wiping out the Weltevreden team’s handicap start, so that on handicap the teams were all square as they came in to change ponies for the last chukka.

  Shasa flung himself out of the saddle, his face flushed with exertion and frustration and anger and shouted at his chief groom. ‘Abel, you didn’t tighten the girth properly.’

  The coloured groom bobbed his head nervously. ‘You checked it, Master Shasa.’

  ‘Don’t answer back, man.’ But he wasn’t even looking at Abel. He was glaring across the field at the Natal pony lines where Max Theunissen was surrounded by a cluster of his admirers. ‘I’ll ride Tiger Shark for this chukka,’ he shouted at Abel over his shoulder.

  ‘You said Plum Pudding,’ Abel protested.

  ‘And now I say Tiger Shark. Change the saddles and check the bandages on his forelegs.’

  Plum Pudding was a small pony, getting a little on in years – and round in the middle – but still with an uncanny instinct to judge the run of the ball and set Shasa up for the shot. The two of them had developed a marvellous rapport. However, as befitted his advancing years, Plum Pudding was becoming cautious. He no longer enjoyed a heavy ride off and flinched from putting his plump shoulder to that of another pony at full gallop. Shasa had seen that at the other lines Max Theunissen had called for his black stallion, Nemesis. On this pony he had terrorized the junior league over the past four days, riding so cunningly close to foul play that the umpires had difficulty bringing him to book; he had succeeded in frightening most of the young lighter riders off th
e line even when they had the right of way, and riding off those who had the courage to stand up to him with such sadistic vigour that there had been two or three close calls – even one accident, when little Tubby Vermeulen from the Transvaal had been brought down so heavily that he had broken his wrist and dislocated his shoulder.

  ‘Come on, Abel, don’t just stand there. Get the saddle on Tiger Shark.’ Tiger Shark was a young bay stallion with only a year’s schooling behind him, an ugly animal with a hammer head and immensely powerful shoulders which gave him a hump-backed appearance. His temperament was equally unattractive. He kicked and bit without provocation or warning, was sometimes almost unmanageable, and he had a vicious aggressive streak that seemed to rejoice in the command to barge in for the ride off; he had never yet flinched from heavy contact. In any other circumstance Shasa would have stayed with Plum Pudding, but Max had saddled Nemesis and Shasa could guess what was coming.

  The shaft of his stick had cracked in the final seconds of the last chukka and he unwound the strap from his wrist and threw it on the ground and called across to his number two as he went to the wagon for a replacement.

  ‘Bunty, you must come up faster and move inside for my cross. Don’t keep falling back, man.’ Shasa broke off, becoming aware of the hectoring tone of his own voice as he realized that Colonel Blaine Malcomess, the national captain and Shasa’s particular demi-god, was watching him. He had come up silently and was now leaning against the rear wheel of the wagon, one ankle crossed over the other, his arms folded over his chest, the wide-brimmed Panama hat canted over one eye and an enigmatic half-smile on his wide mouth. Shasa was sure that it showed disapproval and he tried to smooth over his scowl.

  ‘Hello, sir. We’re taking a bit of a drubbing, I’m afraid,’ and he forced a rueful and unconvincing smile. No matter what they taught you at Bishops, he didn’t like losing, not one little bit.

  Far from being censorious of Shasa’s bad temper, Blaine was delighted with it. The will to win was the single most important asset, and not only on the polo ground. He had not been sure that Shasa Courtney had it; for a person of his age he covered up very well. Offering a beautiful but urbane face to his elders, deferring attentively to them with the old-fashioned manners drummed into him by his mother and his school, and remaining at all times difficult to fathom.

  However, Blaine had been watching him carefully over the last four days. He had seen that Shasa had a strong natural seat on a horse, a marvellous eye and a fluid stroke hinging on a powerful wrist. He was fearless and full of dash, which often meant he was penalized for cutting across the line and for other dangerous play. But Blaine knew that with experience he would learn to disguise his hard play and not make it so apparent to the umpires.

  The other requirements for a top international-class player were great stamina, which would come with age, dedicated application and experience. This last item was so vitally important that a player only reached the high noon of his career at forty years or later. Blaine himself was only just peaking and could look forward to another ten years at the top.

  Shasa Courtney had promise, and now Blaine had seen in him the will to win and his bitter anger at the thought of defeat. He smiled as he remembered his own reply when at that age his father had told him: ‘Blaine, you must learn to be a better loser.’ He had replied from the benefit of all sixteen years of acquired wisdom, ‘Yes, sir, but I don’t intend to get in enough practice to become really good at it.’

  Blaine stifled the smile and spoke softly. ‘Shasa, can we have a word, please?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Shasa hurried to his summons, pulling off his hard cap respectfully.

  ‘You’re letting Max rattle you,’ Blaine said quietly. ‘You’ve been using your noggin up to now. In the first four chukkas you held them to four goals, but in the last chukka Max knocked in five.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Shasa scowled again unconsciously.

  ‘Think, lad. What has changed?’

  Shasa shook his head and then blinked as it dawned on him. ‘He’s pulling me across onto his offside.’

  ‘Right,’ Blaine nodded. ‘He’s taking you on his strong side. Nobody has had a go at him from his other side, not once in five days. Change sides with Bunty and come at him on the nearside; come in steeply and barge him hard – just once. Something tells me young Max isn’t going to like his own medicine. I think only one dose will be necessary. Nobody has yet seen the true colour of Master Theunissen’s liver. My guess is that it has a streak of yellow in it!’

  ‘You mean – foul him, sir?’ Shasa stared at him wonderingly. All his life he had been coached in the games of young gentlemen. This was the first time he had received this type of advice.

  ‘Perish the thought!’ Blaine winked at him. ‘Let’s just learn to be good losers, shall we?’

  They had established this peculiar accord from the moment Centaine had first introduced them. Of course Blaine’s reputation had made it easier for him; he had Shasa’s respect and admiration before they had even met and, given Blaine’s experience as an officer and politician in the art of bending others to his will, it had been a simple matter for him to make the most of his advantage with one so inexperienced and gullible.

  Besides that, Blaine had truly and deeply wanted it to be good between them. Not only for the reason that Shasa was the son of the woman he loved, but because the boy was comely and charismatic, because he was quick-witted and had proved himself fearless and dedicated – and because Blaine did not have, and knew he never would have, a son of his own.

  ‘Stick with him, Shasa, and play him at his own game,’ he ended his advice, and Shasa smiled, his face radiant with pleasure and determination.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He clapped his hard hat on his head and strode away, the shaft of his mallet over his shoulder, the back of his white breeches stained brown with dubbin from the saddle and the sweat drying in salty white crystals between the shoulders of his bright yellow jersey.

  ‘Bunty, we are changing sides,’ he called, and when Abel led Tiger Shark up, Shasa punched his shoulder lightly. ‘You are right, you old thunder, I did check the girth myself.’ He made a show of doing it again, and Abel grinned delightedly when Shasa looked up from the girth buckle and told him, ‘Now you can’t blame me again.’ Without touching the stirrups he swung up onto Tiger Shark’s back.

  Blaine pushed himself away from the wagon wheel and sauntered back towards the grandstand, his eyes instinctively sweeping the throng for the bright yellow of Centaine’s hat.

  She was in a circle of males. Blaine recognized Sir Garry Courtney and General Smuts amongst them, together with three other influential men, a banker, a cabinet minister in the Hertzog government and Max Theunissen’s father.

  ‘A pretty average sort of bunch for Madame Courtney.’ Blaine winced at the jealous pang he could not harden himself to accept.

  Centaine’s invitations had been sent out not only to the best players in the country but to all the most influential and important men in every other field: politicians, academics, great landowners and mining magnates, businessmen and newspaper editors, even a few artists and writers.

  The château of Weltevreden was unable to house them all and she had taken over every room at the neighbouring Alphen Hotel, once also part of the Cloete family estate, to accommodate the overflow. Together with all her local guests, there were well over two hundred from out of town. She had chartered a special train to bring down the up-country contingent and their ponies, and for five days the entertainment had been continuous.

  Junior league polo in the mornings, an al fresco banquet at lunch time, senior polo in the afternoon, followed by an elaborate buffet dinner and all-night dancing.

  Half a dozen bands played in relays, providing non-stop music through the days and nights. In between there were cabaret turns and fashion shows, a charity sale of art and rare wines, another sale of yearling thoroughbreds, a concours d’élégance for motor vehicles and lady drivers,
a treasure hunt, a fancy-dress evening, tennis, croquet and bridge tournaments, show-jumping, a motor cyclist on a wall of death, Punch and Judy for the children and a team of professional nannies to keep the little ones occupied.

  ‘And I am the only one who knows what it is all about.’ Blaine looked up the stand at her. ‘It’s crazy and in a way immoral. It’s no longer her money to spend. But I love her for her courage in the midst of misfortune.’

  Centaine sensed him watching and her head turned quickly to him. For a moment they stared at each other, the distance between them not muting the intensity of their gaze, then she turned back to General Smuts and laughed gaily at what he was saying.

  Blaine longed to go to her, just to be near to her, just to smell her perfume and listen to that husky voice with its touch of French accent, but instead he strode determinedly across the front of the stand to where Isabella sat in her wheelchair. This was the first day that Isabella had felt strong enough to attend the tournament and Centaine had arranged for a special ramp to be built to allow her wheelchair to reach the first tier of seats in the stand for a view of the field.

  Isabella’s silver-haired mother sat on one side of her and she was surrounded by four of her close girl friends and their husbands; but her two daughters came streaking down from the stand as soon as they saw Blaine, holding up their skirts to the knees with one hand and cramming their wide-brimmed beribboned straw hats onto their heads with the other while they gabbled shrilly for his attention and then hopped along on each side of him, clinging to his hands and dragging him up to his seat beside Isabella.

  Dutifully Blaine kissed the pale silky cheek that Isabella offered him. The skin was cool, and he caught a whiff of laudanum on her breath. The pupils of her large eyes were dilated from the drug, giving them a touchingly vulnerable look.

  ‘I missed you, darling,’ she whispered, and it was the truth.

  The moment Blaine had left her, she had looked around desperately to find Centaine Courtney, her torment only easing a little when she saw Centaine surrounded by admirers higher in the stand.