Power of the Sword

by Wilbur Smith

  When she saw Blaine coming, Centaine waved the white-jacketed waiter aside and poured champagne with her own hand and brought the glass to Isabella.

  ‘Thank, you, no,’ Isabella rebuffed her sweetly, and for a moment Centaine was at a loss, standing before the wheelchair with the scorned crystal glass in her hand.

  Then Blaine rescued her. ‘If it’s going begging, Mrs Courtney.’ He took the glass from her, and she smiled quick gratitude, while the others made room for the wheelchair in the circle and the chairman of the Standard Bank, sitting beside Centaine, took up his monologue where it had been interrupted.

  ‘That fellow Hoover and his damned policy of interventionism, he didn’t only destroy the economy of the United States but ruined us all in the process. If he had left it alone we’d all be out of this depression by now, but what do we have instead – over five thousand American banks bust this year, unemployment up to twenty-eight millions, trade with Europe at a standstill, the currency of the world in the process of debasement. He has forced one country after another off the gold standard, even Britain has succumbed. We are one of the very few countries that have been able to maintain the gold standard, and believe me it’s beginning to hurt. It makes the South African pound expensive, makes our exports expensive, it makes our gold expensive to bring to the surface and God alone knows how long we can hold out.’ He glanced across the circle at General Smuts. ‘What do you think, Ou Baas, how long can we stay on gold?’

  And the Ou Baas chuckled until his white goatee waggled and his blue eyes sparkled. ‘My dear Alfred, you mustn’t ask me. I’m a botanist not an economist.’ His laughter was infectious, for they all knew that his was one of the most brilliant minds in any field, that this tumultuous twentieth century had so far spewed forth; that he had urged Hertzog to follow Britain’s example when she left the gold standard; that he had dined with John Maynard Keynes, the economist of the age, on his last visit to Oxford; and that the two of them corresponded regularly.

  ‘Then you must look at my roses, Ou Baas, rather than the gold question,’ Centaine ordered. She had judged the mood of her guests and sensed that such heavy discussion was making them uncomfortable. Day to day they had to live with the unpleasant reality of a world tottering on the financial brink and they escaped from it now with relief.

  The conversation became light and trivial, but with a superficial sparkle like that of the champagne in the long-stemmed tulip glasses. Centaine led the banter and laughter, but beneath it was that empty feeling of impending disaster, the insistent aching knowledge that all this was ending, that it was unreal as a dream, that this was the last echo of the past as she was carried forward into a future full of menace and uncertainty, a future over which she would no longer have control.

  Blaine looked over her shoulder and clapped lightly, and her other guests joined in a splatter of condescending adult applause.

  ‘Hail the conquering hero—’ somebody laughed, and Centaine turned in her seat. Shasa was standing behind her, dressed in flannels and blazer, his hair wet from the shower and the marks left by the comb still sharply furrowed through it. He was smiling with just the right degree of modesty.

  ‘Oh chéri, I’m so proud of you.’ Centaine jumped up and kissed him impulsively and now he blushed with real embarrassment.

  ‘I say, Mater, let’s not go all French now,’ he remonstrated, and he was so beautiful that she wanted to hug him. But she restrained herself and signalled the waiter to bring Shasa a glass of champagne. He glanced at her quizzically; he was usually restricted to lager, and not more than a pint of that either.

  ‘Special occasion.’ She squeezed his arm, and Blaine raised his glass.

  ‘Gentlemen, I give you the famous victory of the Weltevreden juniors.’

  ‘Oh, I say,’ Shasa protested. ‘We had nine goals start.’ But they all drank, and Sir Garry made a place for Shasa beside him.

  ‘Come and sit here, my boy, and tell us how it feels to be champions.’

  ‘Please excuse me, Grandpater, but I have to be with the chaps. We are planning a surprise for later.’

  ‘A surprise?’ Centaine sat up. She had lived through some of Shasa’s surprise turns. The amateur fireworks show during which the old barn had gone up in a most spectacular but unintended display together with the five acres of plantation behind it was only one of his more memorable efforts. ‘What surprise, chéri?’

  ‘If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise, Mater. But we are going to clear the field just before the prize-giving – I thought I’d let you know.’ He gulped the last of the champagne. ‘Have to run, Mater. See you later.’ She held out a hand to restrain him, but he was already on his way back towards the grandstand where the other members of the victorious Weltevreden Invitation team were eagerly waiting for him. They piled into Shasa’s old Ford and went roaring up the long driveway towards the château. She watched them with trepidation until they were out of sight, and when she looked back Blaine and General Smuts had also left the circle and were strolling away amongst the oaks, their heads inclined towards each other talking earnestly. She watched them surreptitiously. They made an interesting and ill-assorted couple, the spry little white-bearded statesman and the tall handsome warrior and lawyer. Their conversation was obviously engrossing, and they were oblivious to all else as they promenaded slowly back and forth, just out of earshot from where Centaine sat.

  ‘When are you returning to Windhoek, Blaine?’

  ‘My wife sails for Southampton in two weeks’ time. I will return immediately the mail boat leaves.’

  ‘Can you stay over?’ General Smuts asked. ‘Say until the New Year? I am expecting developments.’

  ‘May I have an inkling what they are?’ Blaine asked.

  ‘I want you back in the House.’ Smuts evaded the direct question for the moment. ‘I know it will involve sacrifice, Blaine. You are doing an excellent job in Windhoek and building up personal prestige and bargaining power. I am asking you to sacrifice that by resigning the administratorship and contesting the Gardens by-election for the South Africa Party.’

  Blaine did not reply. The sacrifice that the Ou Baas was asking for was onerous.

  The Gardens was a marginal seat. There was a real risk of losing it to the Hertzog party and even with a victory he would gain only a seat on the opposition benches, a heavy price to pay for the loss of the administratorship.

  ‘We are in opposition, Ou Baas,’ he said simply, and General Smuts struck at the Kikuyu grass with his cane as he pondered his reply.

  ‘Blaine. This is for you only. I must have your word on that.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If you trust me now, you will have a ministry within six months.’ Blaine looked incredulous and Smuts stopped in front of him. ‘I see I will have to tell you more.’ He drew a breath. ‘Coalition, Blaine. Hertzog and I are working out a Coalition cabinet. It looks certain and we will announce it in March next year, three months away. I will be taking Justice and it looks as though I will be able to appoint four of my own ministers. You are on my list.’

  ‘I see.’ Blaine tried to take it in. The news was stupendous. Smuts was offering him what he had always wanted, a place in the cabinet.

  ‘I don’t understand, Ou Baas. Why should Hertzog be prepared to negotiate with us now?’

  ‘He knows that he has lost the confidence of the nation and that his own party is becoming unmanageable. His cabinet has become arrogant, if not downright lawless. It is engaging in discretionary rule.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Ou Baas. But surely this is our opportunity! Look to this last month alone, look to the by-election at Germiston and the results of the Transvaal provincial elections. We won both decisively. If we can force a general election now, we will win. We don’t have to form a coalition with the Nationalists. We could win as the South Africa Party on our own terms.’

  The old general was silent for a few moments, his grey beard sunk into his chest and his expression grave. ‘You may
be right, Blaine. We might win now, but not on our own showing. The vote would go against Hertzog, not for us. A party victory now would be barren and sterile. We could not justify forcing a general election for the national welfare. It would be party political profiteering and I want no part of that.’

  Blaine could not reply. Suddenly he felt humbled to be in the confidence of such a man. A man so truly great and good that he would unhesitatingly turn his back on the opportunity to profit from his country’s agony.

  ‘These are desperate times, Blaine.’ Smuts was speaking softly. ‘Storm clouds are gathering all around us. We need a united people. We need a strong coalition cabinet, not a parliament split by party differences. Our economy is tottering on the brink, the gold-mining industry is in jeopardy. At present costs, many of the older mines are already closing down. Others will follow, and when they do it will mean the end of the South Africa that we know and love. In addition to that, the prices of wool and diamonds, our other major exports, have crashed.’

  Blaine nodded soberly. All these factors were the basis of nationwide concern.

  ‘I don’t have to emphasize the findings of the Wage Commission,’ Smuts went on. ‘One fifth of our white population has been plunged by drought and primitive farming methods into abject poverty, twenty per cent of our productive lands have been ruined by erosion and abuse, probably permanently.’

  ‘The poor whites,’ Blaine murmured, ‘a great mass of itinerant beggars and starvelings, unemployed and untrained, without skills, without hope.’

  ‘Then we have our blacks, split by twenty tribal divisions, flocking in from the rural districts in search of the good life, die lekkerlewe, and swelling the ranks of the unemployed, finding instead of the good life, crime and illicit liquor and prostitution, building up a pervading discontent, conceiving a fine contempt for our laws and discovering for the first time the sweet attractions of political power.’

  ‘That is a problem we haven’t even begun to address or attempt to understand,’ Blaine agreed. ‘Let us pray our children and our grandchildren do not curse us for our neglect.’

  ‘Let us pray, indeed,’ Smuts echoed. ‘And while we do so, let us look beyond our own borders for a moment, to the chaos which engulfs the rest of the world.’ He stabbed at the earth with his cane to mark each point as he made it. ‘In America the system of credit has collapsed and trade with Europe and the rest of the world has come to a standstill. Armies of the poor and dispossessed roam aimlessly across the continent.’ He stabbed the point of the cane into the turf. ‘In Germany the Weimar Republic is collapsing after ruining the economy. One hundred and fifty billion Weimar marks to one of the old gold marks, wiping out the nation’s savings. Now from the ashes has risen a new dictatorship, founded in blood and violence, which has upon it the stench of immense evil.’ He struck the earth again, angrily. ‘In Russia a ravening monster is murdering millions of his own countrymen. Japan is in the throes of anarchy. The military have run riot cutting down the nation’s elected rulers, seizing Manchuria and slaughtering the unfortunate inhabitants by the hundreds of thousands, threatening to walk out of the League of Nations when the rest of the world protests.’ Once again the cane hissed as he slashed at the lush Kikuyu grass. ‘There has been a run on the Bank of England, Great Britain forced off the Gold Standard, and from the vault of history the ancient curse of anti-Semitism has escaped once more and stalks the civilized world.’ Smuts stopped and faced Blaine squarely. ‘Everywhere we turn there is disaster and mortal danger. I will not attempt to profit from it and in so doing divide this suffering land. No, Blaine, coalition and co-operation, not conflict.’

  ‘How did it all go wrong so swiftly, Ou Baas?’ Blaine asked softly. ‘It seems just yesterday that we were prosperous and happy.’

  ‘In South Africa a man can be filled with hope at dawn and sick with despair by noon.’ Smuts was silent for a moment, and then he roused himself.

  ‘I need you, Blaine. Do you want time to think about it?’

  Blaine shook his head. ‘No need. You can count on me, Ou Baas.’

  ‘I knew I could.’

  Blaine looked beyond him to where Centaine sat under the oaks and tried to hide his jubilation and to suppress the sense of shame that underlaid it, shame that unlike this saintly little man before him he was to profit from the agony of his country and the civilized world, shame that only now, out of despair and hardship, he would achieve his cherished ambition of cabinet rank. Added to that he would be returning to the Cape, coming in from the desert lands to this lush and beautiful place, coming in to where Centaine Courtney was.

  Then his gaze flicked to the thin pale woman in the wheelchair, her beauty fading under the onslaught of pain and drugs, and his guilt and shame balanced almost perfectly his jubilation.

  But Smuts was speaking again.

  ‘I will be staying on here as a guest at Weltevreden for the next four days, Blaine. Sir Garry has bullied me into agreeing to allow him to write my biography and I will be working with him on the first draft. At the same time I will be conducting a series of secret meetings with Barry Hertzog to agree the final details of the coalition. This is an ideal place for us to talk and I would be obliged if you could keep yourself available. I will almost certainly be calling upon you.’

  ‘Of course.’ With an effort Blaine set his own emotions aside. ‘I will be here as long as you need me. Do you want me to submit my resignation to the administrator’s office?’

  ‘Draft the letter,’ Smuts agreed. ‘I will explain your reasons to Hertzog and you can hand it to him in person.’

  Blaine glanced at his watch and the old general said quickly, ‘Yes, you will have to prepare for your match. This frivolity in the midst of such dire events is rather like fiddling while Rome burns, but one must keep up appearances. I have even agreed to present the prizes. Centaine Courtney is a persuasive lady. So I hope we will meet later – at the prize-giving when I hand you the cup.’

  It was a close thing, but the Cape ‘A’ team, led by Blaine Malcomess, held off the most determined efforts of the Transvaal ‘A’ in the final match of the tournament to win by three goals. Immediately afterwards all the teams gathered at the foot of the grandstand where the array of silver cups was set out on the prize table but there was an awkward pause in the proceedings. One team was missing: the junior champions.

  ‘Where is Shasa?’ Centaine demanded in a low but furious voice of Cyril Slaine, who was the tournament organizer.

  He flapped his hands and looked helpless. ‘He promised me he would be here.’

  ‘If this is his surprise—’ With an effort Centaine hid her anger behind a gracious smile for the benefit of her interested guests. ‘Well, that is it. We begin without them.’ She took her place on the front tier of the stand beside the general and held up both hands for attention.

  ‘General Smuts, ladies and gentlemen, honoured guests and dear friends.’ She faltered and looked around uncertainly, her voice overlaid by the drone in the air, a sound that rose steadily in volume, becoming a roar, and every face in the crowd was lifted to the sky, searching, some puzzled, others amused or uneasy. Then suddenly over the oaks at the far end of the polo field flashed the wings of a low-flying aircraft. Centaine recognized it as a Puss-Moth, a small single-engined machine. It banked steeply towards the grandstand and came straight at them, no more than head high as it raced across the field. Then, when it seemed it would fly straight into the crowded stand, the nose lifted sharply and it roared over their heads as half the spectators ducked instinctively and a woman screamed.

  In the moment that it flashed over her, Centaine saw Shasa’s laughing face in the side window of the aircraft’s cabin, and the flicker of his hand as he waved, and instantly she was transported back over the years, through time and space.

  The face was no longer Shasa’s but that of Michael Courtney, his father. In her mind the machine was no longer blue and streamlined but had assumed the gaunt old-fashioned lines, the
double deck of wings and wire riggings and the open cockpit and daubed yellow paintwork of a wartime scoutplane.

  It banked around in a wide circle, appearing once more over the tops of the oaks, and she stood rigid with shock and her soul was riven by a silent scream of anguish as she watched again the shot-riddled yellow scoutplane trying to clear the great beech trees below the château of Mort Homme, its engine stuttering and missing.

  ‘Michael!’ She screamed his name in her head and it was like a blinding flash of agony as once again she watched his mortally wounded machine hit the top branches of the tall copper beech and cartwheel, wing over wing, as it fell out of the air and struck the earth to collapse in a welter of broken struts and canvas. Again she saw the flames bloom like beautiful poisonous flowers and leap high from the shattered machine, and the dark smoke roll across the lawns towards her, and the body of the man in the open cockpit twist and writhe and blacken as the orange flames sucked upwards and the heat danced in glassy mirage and greasy black smoke and filled her ears with drumming thunder.

  ‘Michael!’ Her jaws were locked closed, her teeth aching at the pressure, and her lips were rimmed with the ice of horror so that the name could not escape from between them.

  Then miraculously the image faded, and she saw instead the small blue machine settle sedately onto the green turf of the polo field, its tail dropping onto the skid, the engine beat dwindling to a polite burbling murmur as it swung around at the far end of the field and then taxied back towards the stand, the wings rocking slightly. It stopped below them and the engine cut out with a final hiccough of blue smoke from the exhausts.

  The doors on each side of the cabin were flung open and out tumbled Shasa Courtney and his three grinning teammates. It amazed her that they had all crammed into that tiny cockpit.

  ‘Surprise, everybody!’ they howled. ‘Surprise! Surprise!’ And there was laughter and applause and whistles and catcalls from the stand. An aircraft was still a marvellous novelty, able to attract the attention of even such a sophisticated gathering as this. Probably not more than one in five of them had ever flown in one, and this unexpected and noisy arrival had created an excited laughing mood so that the applause and comment was loud and raucous as Shasa led his team up to the prize table to accept the silver cup from General Smuts.