Power of the Sword

by Wilbur Smith

  They followed the unsurfaced road, and the dust raised by the Ford’s wheels hung behind them in the still dry highveld air and then settled gently to powder the brittle frost-dried grass along the verges a bright theatrical red.

  The road served a cluster of smallholdings, each of them five or ten acres in extent, and Dr Marcus Archer’s property was the one at the end of the road. He made no attempt to farm the land, he had no chickens, horses or vegetable gardens such as the other small-holders kept. The single building was square and unpretentious, with a tattered thatched roof and wide verandah encompassing all four sides. It was screened from the road by a scraggly plantation of Australian blue gums.

  There were four other vehicles parked under the gum trees, and Moses turned the Ford off the track and stopped the engine. ‘Yes, my brother. The years have passed swiftly,’ he agreed. ‘They always do when men are intent on dire purposes, and the world is changing all around us. There are great events afoot. It is nineteen years since the revolution in Russia, and Trotsky has been exiled. Herr Hitler has occupied the Rhineland, and in Europe there is talk of war – a war that will destroy for ever the curse of Capitalism and from which the revolution will emerge victorious.’

  Hendrick laughed, the black gap in his teeth making it a grimace. ‘These things do not concern us.’

  ‘You are wrong again, my brother. They concern us beyond all else.’

  ‘I do not understand them.’

  ‘Then I will help you.’ Moses touched his arm. ‘Come, my brother. I am taking you now to the next step in your understanding of the world.’ He opened the door of the Ford and Hendrick climbed down on his side and followed him towards the old house.

  ‘It will be wise, my brother, if you keep your eyes and your ears open and your mouth closed,’ Moses told him as they reached the steps at the front verandah. ‘You will learn much that way.’

  As they climbed the steps, Marcus Archer hurried out onto the verandah to greet them, his expression lighting with pleasure as he saw Moses, and he hurried to him and embraced him lovingly then, his arm still around Moses’ waist, he turned to Hendrick.

  ‘You will be Henny. We have spoken about you often.’

  ‘I have met you before, Dr Archer, at the induction centre.’

  ‘That was so long ago.’ Marcus Archer shook his hand. ‘And you must call me Marcus. You are a member of our family.’ He glanced at Moses and his adoration was apparent. He reminded Hendrick of a young wife all agog with her new husband’s virility.

  Hendrick knew that Moses lived here at Rivonia Farm with Marcus and he felt no revulsion for the relationship. He understood how vitally important Marcus Archer’s counsel and assistance had been in their successes over the years and approved the price that Moses paid for them. Hendrick himself had used men in the same fashion, never as a loving relationship but as a form of torture of a captured enemy. In his view there was no greater humiliation and degradation that one man could inflict upon another, yet he knew that in his brother’s position he would not hesitate to use this strange red-haired little white man as he desired to be used.

  ‘Moses has been very naughty in not bringing you to visit us sooner.’ Marcus slapped Moses’ arm playfully. ‘There are so many interesting and important people here who you should have met ages ago. Come along now, let me introduce you.’ He took Hendrick’s arm and led him through to the kitchen.

  It was a traditional farmhouse kitchen with stone-flagged floor, a black woodburning stove at the far end and bunches of onions, cured hams and polonies hanging from the hooks in the beams of the ceiling.

  Eleven men were seated at the long yellow-wood table. Five of them were white, but the rest were black men, and their ages varied from callow youth to grey-haired sage. Marcus led Hendrick slowly down both sides of the table, introducing him to each in turn, beginning with the man at the head of the table.

  ‘This is the Reverend John Dube, but you will have heard him called Mafukuzela,’ and Hendrick felt an unaccustomed wave of awe.

  ‘Hau, Baba!’ he greeted the handsome old Zulu with vast respect. He knew that he was the political leader of the Zulu nation, that he was also the editor and founder of the Ilanga Lase Natal newspaper, The Sun of Natal – but most importantly that he was president of the African National Congress, the only political organization that attempted to speak for all the black nations of the southern African continent.

  ‘I know of you,’ Dube told Hendrick quietly. ‘You have done valuable work with the new trade union. You are welcome, my son.’

  After John Dube, the other men in the room were of small interest to Hendrick, though there was one young black man who could not have been more than twenty years of age but who nevertheless impressed Hendrick with his dignity and powerful presence.

  ‘This is our young lawyer—’

  ‘Not yet! Not yet!’ the young man protested.

  ‘Our soon-to-be-lawyer,’ Marcus Archer corrected himself. ‘He is Nelson Mandela, son of Chief Henry Mandela from the Transkei.’ And as they shook hands in the white men’s fashion that for Hendrick still felt awkward, he looked into the law student’s eyes and thought: ‘This is a young lion.’

  The white men at the table made small impression on Hendrick. There were lawyers and a journalist, and a man who wrote books and poetry of which Hendrick had never heard, but the others treated his opinions with respect.

  The only thing that Hendrick found remarkable about these white men was the courtesy which they accorded him. In a society in which a white man seldom acknowledged the existence of a black except to deliver an order, usually in brusque terms, it was unusual to encounter such concern and condescension. They shook Hendrick’s hand without embarrassment, which was in itself strange, and made room for him at the table, poured wine for him from the same bottle and passed food to him on the same plate from which they had served themselves; and when they talked to him it was as an equal and they called him ‘comrade’ and ‘brother’.

  It seemed that Marcus Archer was a chef of repute, and he fussed over the woodburning stove producing dishes of food so minced and mixed and decorated and swimming in sauce that Hendrick could not tell either by inspection or taste whether they were fish or fowl or four-footed beast, but the others exclaimed and applauded and feasted voraciously.

  Moses had advised Hendrick to keep his mouth filled with food rather than words, and to speak only when directly addressed and then in monosyllables, yet the others kept glancing at him with awe for he was an impressive figure in their midst: his head huge and heavy as a cannonball, the shining cicatrice lumped on his shaven pate and his gaze brooding and menacing.

  The talk interested Hendrick very little but he feigned glowering attention as the others excitedly discussed the situation in Spain. The Popular Front Government, a coalition of Trotskyites, Socialists, left-wing Republicans and Communists, were threatened by an army mutiny under General Francisco Franco, and the company at Marcus Archer’s luncheon table were filled with joyous outrage at this Fascist treachery. It seemed likely that it would plunge the Spanish nation into civil war and they all knew that only in the furnace of war could resolution be forged.

  Two of the white men at the table, the poet and the journalist, declared their intention of leaving for Spain as soon as possible to join the struggle, and the other white men made no effort to disguise their envious admiration.

  ‘You lucky devils. I would have gone like a shot but the Party wants me to remain here.’

  There were many references to ‘the Party’ during the course of that long Sunday afternoon, and gradually the company turned its concerted attention on Hendrick as though it had been prearranged. Hendrick was relieved that Moses had insisted he read parts of Das Kapital and some of Lenin’s works, in particular What is to be Done? and On Dual Authority. It was true that Hendrick had found them difficult to the point of pain and had followed them only imperfectly. However, Moses had gutted these works for him and presented hi
m with the essentials of Marx’s and Lenin’s thoughts.

  Now they were taking it in turns to talk directly at Hendrick, and he realized that he was being subjected to some sort of test. He glanced at Moses, and although his brother’s expression did not change, he sensed that he was willing him consciously to a course of action. Was he trying to warn Hendrick to remain silent? He was not certain, but at that moment Marcus Archer said clearly:

  ‘Of course, the formation of a trade union amongst the black mine workers is in itself sufficient to assure the eventual triumph of the revolution—’ But his inflection posed a question, and he was watching Hendrick slyly, and Hendrick was not certain from where inspiration came.

  ‘I do not agree,’ he growled, and they were all silent, waiting expectantly. ‘The history of the struggle bears witness that the workers unassisted will rise only as far as the idea of trade unionism, to combine their resources to fight the employers and the capitalist government. But it needs professional revolutionaries bound by complete loyalty to their ideals and by military-type discipline to carry the struggle to its ultimate victorious conclusion.’

  It was almost a verbatim quotation from Lenin’s What is to be Done? and Hendrick had spoken in English. Even Moses looked amazed by his achievement, while the others exchanged delighted smiles as Hendrick glowered around him and relapsed back into impressive monumental silence.

  It was sufficient. He did not have to speak again. By nightfall, when the others traipsed out into the darkness calling farewells and thanks, climbed into their motor cars with slamming doors and roars of starting engines and drove away down the dusty track, Moses had achieved what he had aimed for in bringing his brother out to Rivonia Farm.

  Hendrick had been sworn in as a full member of both the South African Communist Party and of the African National Congress.

  Marcus Archer had set the guest bedroom aside for Hendrick. He lay in the narrow truckle bed listening to Moses and Marcus rutting in the main bedroom across the passage, and he was abruptly seized with the conviction that today the seeds of his destiny had been sown: that both the outer limits of his fortune and the time and manner of his own death had been determined in these last few hours. As he fell asleep, he was carried into the darkness on a wave of exultation and of dread.

  Moses woke him while it was still dark and Marcus walked out to the Ford with them. The veld was white with frost; it crunched under their feet and had crusted on the windshield of the Ford.

  Marcus shook hands with Hendrick. ‘Forward, Comrade,’ he said. ‘The future belongs to us.’ They left him standing in the frosty dark, staring after them.

  Moses did not drive directly back into the city. Instead he parked the Ford below one of the high flat-topped mine dumps and he and Hendrick climbed the eroded dump side, five hundred feet almost sheer, and reached the top just as the rising sun cleared the horizon and turned the winter veld to pale gold.

  ‘Now do you understand?’ Moses asked as they stood shoulder to shoulder on the brink of the precipitous hillside, and suddenly like the sunrise itself Hendrick saw his brother’s whole tremendous design.

  ‘You want not a part of it,’ he said softly, ‘not even the greater part.’ He spread his arms in a wide gesture that encompassed all below them from horizon to horizon. ‘You want it all. The whole land and everything in it.’ And his voice was filled with wonder at the enormity of the vision.

  Moses smiled. His brother had at last understood.

  They climbed down the mine dump and went in silence to where the Ford was parked. In silence they drove towards Drake’s Farm, for there were no words to describe what had happened, as there are no words adequately to describe birth or death. Only as they left the city limits and were forced to stop at one of the level crossings where the railway that served the mine properties crossed the main road, did the mundane world intrude once again.

  A ragged black urchin, shivering in the frosty winter high-veld morning, ran to the side window of the Ford and waved a folded newspaper at Moses through the glass. He rolled down the window, flipped the child a copper coin and placed the newspaper on the seat between them.

  Hendrick frowned with interest and unfolded the news-sheet, holding it so they could both see the front page. The headlines were full column:

  SOUTH AFRICAN TEAM CHOSEN FOR

  BERLIN OLYMPIC GAMES

  THE NATION WISHES THEM GOOD LUCK

  ‘I know that white boy,’ Hendrick exclaimed, grinning gap-toothed as he recognized one of the photographs that accompanied the text.

  ‘So do I,’ Moses agreed, but they were looking at different young white faces in the long rows of individual pictures.

  Of course, Manfred knew that Uncle Tromp kept the most extraordinary hours. Whenever Manfred’s bladder woke him in the small dark hours and he dragged himself out of the toolshed and stumbled down the path to the outhouse against the moroto hedge he would look up and through sleep-blurred eyes see the lamplight burning in the window of Uncle Tromp’s study.

  Once, more wide awake than usual, Manfred left the path and crept through Aunt Trudi’s cabbages to peer in over the sill. Uncle Tromp sat like a shaggy bear at his desk, his beard rumpled from constant tugging and combing with his thick fingers, wire-framed spectacles perched upon his great beak of a nose, muttering furiously to himself as he scribbled on the loose sheets of paper that were tumbled over the desktop like debris after a hurricane. Manfred had assumed he was working on one of his sermons, but had not thought it strange that his labours had continued night after night for almost two years.

  Then one morning the coloured postman wheeled his bicycle up the dusty road, burdened by an enormous package wrapped in brown paper and blazoned with stamps and stickers and red sealing-wax. Aunt Trudi placed the mysterious package on the small hall table, and all the children found excuses to creep into the hall and stare at it in awe, until at five o’clock Uncle Tromp drove up in his pony trap and the girls, led by Sarah, ran shrilling to meet him before he could dismount.

  ‘There is a parcel for you, Papa.’

  They crowded up behind him while Uncle Tromp made a show of examining the package and reading the label aloud. Then he took the pearl-handled penknife from the pocket of his waistcoat, deliberately tested the edge of the blade with his thumb, cut the strings binding the packet and carefully unwrapped the brown paper.

  ‘Books!’ sighed Sarah, and the girls all drooped with palpable disappointment and drifted away. Only Manfred lingered.

  There were six thick copies of the same book, all identical, bound in red boards, the titles printed in fake gold leaf but still crisp and shining from the presses. And something in Uncle Tromp’s manner and in the intent expression with which he watched Manfred as he waited for his reaction, alerted him to the unusual significance of this pile of books.

  Manfred read the title of the top copy and found it long and awkward: The Afrikaner: His Place in History and Africa.

  It was written in Afrikaans, the infant language still striving for recognition. Manfred found that unusual – all important scholarly works, even when written by Afrikaners, were in Dutch. He was about to remark upon this when his eyes moved down to the name of the author – and he started and gasped.

  ‘Uncle Tromp!’

  The old man chuckled with modest gratification.

  ‘You wrote it!’ Manfred’s face lit with pride. ‘You wrote a book.’

  ‘Ja, Jong – even an old dog can learn new tricks.’ Uncle Tromp swept up the pile in his arms and strode into his study. He placed the books in the centre of his desk and then looked around with astonishment to see that Manfred had followed him into the room.

  ‘I’m sorry, Uncle Tromp.’ Manfred realized his trespass. He had been in this room only once before in his life, and then only by special invitation. ‘I didn’t ask. May I come in, please, Oom?’

  ‘Looks like you are in already.’ Uncle Tromp tried to look stern. ‘You might as well stay then.’
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br />   Manfred sidled up to the desk with his hands behind his back. In this house he had learned immense respect for the written word. He had been taught that books were the most precious of all men’s treasures, the receptacles of his God-given genius.

  ‘May I touch one of them?’ he asked, and when Uncle Tromp nodded, he gingerly reached out and traced the author’s name with his fingertip: ‘The Reverend Tromp Bierman’.

  Then he picked up the top copy, expecting at any moment the old man to bellow angrily at him. When it did not happen, he opened the book and stared at the small murky print on cheap spongy yellow paper.

  ‘May I read it, please, Uncle Tromp?’ he found himself begging, again expecting denial. But Uncle Tromp’s expression turned softly bemused.

  ‘You want to read it?’ He blinked with mild surprise, and then chuckled. ‘Well, I suppose that’s why I wrote it – for people to read.’

  Suddenly he grinned like a mischievous small boy and snatched the book from Manfred’s hand. He sat down at his desk, placed his spectacles on his nose, dipped his pen and scribbled on the flyleaf of the open book, re-read what he had written and then handed it to Manfred with a flourish:

  ‘To Manfred De La Rey,

  A young Afrikaner who will help make our people’s place in history and Africa secure for all time.

  Your affectionate

  Uncle Tromp Bierman.’

  Clutching the book to his chest, Manfred backed away to the door as though he feared it would be snatched from him again. ‘Is it mine – is it truly for me?’ he whispered.

  And when Uncle Tromp nodded, ‘Yes, Jong, it’s yours,’ he turned and fled from the room, forgetting in his haste to voice his thanks.