Читать книгу To hell with Cronjé - Ingrid Winterbach - Страница 6

Gert Smal leads them to a camp behind a large koppie strewn with loose boulders. Near the crest there is a cave with a deep overhang, flanked by a solid rock wall. In front of the cave is a large, open space with a fireplace. Among the large boulders are a number of shelters. The loose rocks and dense shrubbery appear to afford ample shelter. (Better than they have seen in a long time.) The farmhouse is clearly visible in the slight hollow below.

By the time they arrive, it is dark. The men sitting around the fire are eating. There is the intoxicating smell of meat and porridge.

Gert Smal shows them where they can make their beds. They can use grasses and dried shrubs as mattresses. Ezekiel will build them shelters tomorrow, he says; no one can build a shelter like that Kaffir.

Ezekiel is ordered to tend to their horses, which have been left with the others lower down the slope.

Gratefully they join the company around the fire. Apart from thug-faced Gert Smal there is also Japie Stilgemoed – a thin, wiry man with a sharp, intense face and wild hair that springs energetically from his high forehead. He is clean-shaven, except for a moustache. There is Kosie Rijpma – a small, delicately-built man, with a fine head of dark, curly hair, a short, neatly-trimmed dark beard and dark, soulful eyes – who sits hunched up, avoiding all eye contact. There is Reuben Wessels – a big man with a lively but weathered face, a bushy beard and hair, large hands and one leg ending at the knee. There is Seun – a scrawny youth, younger than Abraham – not much more than fourteen or fifteen years of age – with a shaven head and a harelip. There is Gert Smal’s dog, a slender beast with yellow eyes that growls warily and keeps her distance mistrustfully. And finally there is Ezekiel, squatting just outside the immediate glow of the fire.

“Heavens, Ben,” Reitz says softly, “what have we got here?”

Ben makes no reply but his nostrils flare nervously, a sign that he is ill at ease.

At first they are hardly able to focus on anything but the food. Even Abraham has to be cautioned by Willem to eat more slowly.

“Slow down,” says Gert Smal, “or the lot of you will be throwing up all night.” Every now and then he fills his tin mug from a bottle.

“Been hungry lately?” Reuben asks. And he throws a bone at the dog that slinks from the shadows to pick it up before returning to her place at Gert Smal’s feet. “Yes,” he says, “hunger can certainly gnaw at a man’s guts. You can’t tell me anything about hunger!”

When they have finished eating, Japie Stilgemoed moves closer to the fire and reads from the Bible. He reads from Job, chapter twenty-seven, verses one to twenty-three: Job maintaining his innocence before God; Job pointing out to his friends how little resemblance there is between him and a wicked man; Job acknowledging that the righteousness of God is often revealed in the downfall of the wicked, although this does not pertain to him, for he is not wicked.

After the Scripture reading he prays – a bashful but sincere prayer. He thanks God that the newcomers have reached them safely, and he prays that God will soon reunite them all with their loved ones. They sing a hymn. Willem especially is in full voice tonight – his singing is filled with gratitude and praise.

Then Gert Smal brings out another bottle, and pours them each a generous measure of brandy. (They dare not refuse this token of hospitality. And Reitz, for one, feels no inclination to do so.)

Young Abraham has a coughing fit and Willem pats his back and wipes his mouth carefully. Before long a feeling of well-being spreads through their bodies, and Reitz does not decline when the bottle makes the rounds again and again.

“The general,” says Gert Smal, “never has a shortage of firewater. Spoils of war,” he adds with a sanctimonious sneer. “The general has no qualms about taking what’s his due.”

Whereupon he inquires how they ended up in Senekal’s wagon laager, all the while looking at them askance, as if he has no great interest in their reply, the prominent, heavy fold between his eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. He takes frequent swigs from his mug.

At the beginning of the war Reitz joined the Johannesburg commando under Commandant Ben Viljoen, but after the battle of Donkerhoek he ended up with the Lichtenburg Commando led by Commandant Celliers, where he met his friend Ben. They were in the Northern Free State with the men of the Kroonstad Commando for a while. Under the leadership of Commandant Nel they moved as far as Kimberley, but the battle of Slangfontein resulted in their joining up with Commandant Senekal.

Ben initially joined the Winburg Commando under Commandant Vilonel, before he ended up in the Lichtenburg Commando with Reitz.

Willem fought in the Middelburg Commando under the leadership of Commandant Fourie before joining Commandant Senekal’s laager. Then his good friend Frederik Fouché was killed in the battle of Droogleegte, and since then Willem has taken his friend’s younger brother under his wing. He points at young Abraham, who is staring fixedly into the flames.

“Scutties,” Abraham says tonelessly.

“Celliers, Vilonel and Fourie can all go to hell,” says Gert Smal.

“And may we ask,” Willem inquires politely, “what byways brought you men here to the general’s camp?”

Gert Smal spits out the piece of twig on which he has been chewing. He takes a swig from the bottle. Laughs curtly.

“Old Japie over there,” he says, pointing at Japie Stilgemoed, “is a bit hard of hearing – a shell exploded right next to him. He had the runs for a long time. He was so emaciated and weak, he wasn’t fit for anything.”

Japie Stilgemoed listens attentively; nods in agreement.

And is he quite recovered now? Willem asks solicitously.

Yes, oh yes, he’s much better, says Japie Stilgemoed, and looks the other way.

“Old Kosie,” and Gert Smal points summarily at Kosie Rijpma, “used to be a predikant in the women’s camp not far from here before he went off his head. We found him wandering in the veld – batty. No one could make head or tail of his blathering. He’s still not all there half the time.”

Kosie Rijpma stares impassively; does not refute the information.

“Poor man,” Willem remarks sympathetically.

“Spibush,” young Abraham says tonelessly.

“Reuben lost his leg at Dwarslêersbos,” Gert Smal continues. “Now he’s no use whatsoever in the field.”

Reuben nods.

“Bends,” says young Abraham. He appears pale and restless. Willem looks worried.

“There now, boy,” he says, trying to persuade him to take a sip of water.

Not a word from Gert Smal about his own movements, Reitz notices.

Gert Smal is gradually warming up, helped along by his inebriation. If he happens to forget a name or a place, he snaps his fingers at where Ezekiel keeps to the shadows, and the missing fact is immediately forthcoming.

“To hell with Piet Joubert,” Gert Smal says. “He should have chased the English into the sea, right at the beginning, when we still had the advantage of mobility. The siege of Ladysmith was a farce! Our men could have been put to better use. Joubert should have given chase at Nicholson’s Nek. The Free Staters were the best snipers – the Heilbron commando alone could have whipped the Khakis’ arses at Nicholson’s Nek! By the end of April the men had lost heart. They were starting to go home. They had no more drive. They’d been lying around for far too long, waiting for action. Joubert made them lie around, bored stiff, when they were still full of dash – when he should have let them loose to chase the enemy into the sea!”

Thus and in that vein Gert Smal holds forth, with Reuben now and again adding something. Japie Stilgemoed has little to say and Kosie Rijpma does not utter a word, and the two of them are the first to get up and go to their shelters.

Not only is Seun’s speech impaired by his cleft palate, Reitz notices, but he also seems rather slow on the uptake. He communicates – only with Ezekiel and Gert Smal – by means of signs and unintelligible sounds.

Drowsy from the heat of the fire, the food and the drink, Reitz finds it difficult to focus on the conversation; he barely makes an effort to follow what Gert Smal is saying.

Later, when Gert Smal’s eyes are fixed and glassy, when his language has steadily become more uncouth, Willem – ever tactful, as they have come to know him – speaks on behalf of them all: “And may we ask where the general is at the moment?”

“You may ask, Neef,” Gert Smal replies, “but I can’t tell you, because the general’s movements are secret. All I can say is that he’s out on a little punitive expedition with a group of men. They’ve gone to give those damned fat-arsed Khakis a bloody good thrashing.”

Much later, in the small hours, when the night air is cool and fragrant, the chirping of crickets deafening, the cool rustling of poplar trees down at the river barely audible and the stars are shooting furiously across the dark sky, when Willem and Abraham have already turned in and Reitz and Ben are decidedly the worse for drink (though not unpleasantly so), Gert Smal suddenly declares: “Tomorrow we’re going up the kloof to fetch honey. You two are coming along,” and he points at Reitz and Ben.

They reach their beds just in time, grateful for the grass bedding on the ground. They are scarcely aware of the night chill and the early morning dew, they sleep as never before, sleep like logs, under the swirling and pitching of the stars.

*

The next morning both Reitz and Ben wake with pounding headaches. They groan when Gert Smal wakes them. They are to get up. He can’t wait all day.

Willem and Abraham stay in camp. Reitz and Ben accompany Gert Smal, who leads the way energetically. He appears to be much more resistant to the excessive intake of intoxicating fluid than the two of them.

Heading away from camp, they follow a narrow footpath, picking their way among loose boulders until they emerge near the river. There is no bank on the opposite side – a cliff face reaches up to the sky. With the river on their left, they proceed downhill for a while, past the poplar grove, to a place where the opposite bank plunges sharply downward. At a shallow drift they cross the river, leaping from stone to stone. At the base of a narrow kloof they swing left.

Reitz and Ben battle to keep up with Gert Smal, muttering from time to time under their breath. Gert Smal is out to kill us, Ben, Reitz says. He’ll think of crueller ways if that’s what he’s really up to, Ben replies.

After a while the rocky, uneven terrain gradually gives way to grassland dotted with aloe and thorn tree. The sudden transition in the landscape is beautiful – the unexpected greenness in this predominantly arid, stony environment. Up ahead they hear the rushing of water. Must be a waterfall further up the kloof, Ben remarks.

He points out a variety of things. A grasshopper with long, slender body and folded wings, uniformly green and motionless on a blade of grass. The quill of a porcupine, the droppings of a red rhebok, the lair of the small-spotted genet and the red mongoose. They hear the cry of a hamerkop and see a tawny eagle circle overhead.

Everything has to be pointed out at the double, for Gert Smal brooks no loitering.

Despite his energy, Gert Smal is sullen this morning. Their cautious inquiry as to where they will find the honey is met with silence. They soon discover Gert Smal dislikes questions – unless he is asking them himself.

When they have covered a considerable distance, Gert Smal says out of the blue: “Oompie knows a lot of tricks. And he can see into the future.”

Oompie? Reitz glances at Ben, who shrugs in mid-stride.

“What kind of tricks?” he asks circumspectly.

“You’ll see soon enough,” is Gert Smal’s curt reply.

“And what does he see?” Reitz asks later, also warily.

“Anything,” says Gert Smal, “he sees anything.”

“Be prepared, Ben,” Reitz says softly.

“Is one allowed to ask him things?” Ben inquires.

“There’s no need to ask him anything,” Gert Smal answers brusquely.

“What do you want to know, Reitz?” Ben asks as they walk along, having made certain they are not being overheard.

“Ah,” Reitz wipes his hand across his face, flushed and damp by now. “That is the question – what do I want to know!”

Some distance into the kloof they are suddenly pelted with stones from higher up. They fall to the ground.

Gert Smal, flat on his stomach, cups his hands to his mouth and shouts up the mountain: “Dammit, Oompie, stop your nonsense! We come in bloody peace!”

Bloody peace, it echoes through the kloof.

Dead quiet from above. But there are no more stones.

“Goodness, Reitz,” Ben says softly, “what are we to expect now?”

Shortly afterwards, about midway up the kloof, a hut becomes visible on a level grassy plain.

“This is where the old bugger lives,” says Gert Smal.

An old man comes to meet them. He approaches with arms outstretched, wearing a crumpled raincoat – like the one (Reitz imagines) the defeated Piet Cronjé wore when he emerged from the bunker after twelve days, having just about lost his bearings after the English had subjected them to twenty-four hours of non-stop shelling.

On Oompie’s feet are home-made sandals, artfully woven of grass and leather, with thick leather soles.

When he reaches them, he greets them warmly. He gazes into their eyes long and searchingly, as if he recognises something in their unfamiliar faces. His pupils are small and black, Reitz notices, scarcely visible specks.

“My friends,” he says, “I’ve been expecting you!”

First pelted with stones, now heartily welcomed.

Oompie is of indeterminate age with a short, stocky frame. His eyes are small and pale. His skin is oily and his complexion somewhat swarthy. His beard is sparse; the hair long, sleek and greasy. There is something Oriental about him, Reitz thinks. He emits a smell like rancid butter.

Oompie escorts them to his hut and bids them sit on a bench in the sun.

He himself takes a seat on a large loose boulder.

Today is a special day, he says. It’s the birthday of his old father, who departed this life some years ago.

Reitz notices the small fleshy hands: hairless, with sharply pointed fingers and a bluish tinge under the nails. Oompie is like someone from a different era; from another, an older realm.

While at first he peered eagerly into their eyes, he now stares steadfastly over their shoulders and seems to be directing his words at a spot somewhere behind them – so that neither Reitz nor Ben can resist the temptation to steal a backward glance once or twice at what Oompie observes in the distance while he is talking.

He speaks of his late father. He speaks of the bounty of creation and the mysteries of nature. He speaks musingly and at times he seems deeply moved. For long moments he is silent.

Reitz is struck by the fervour in Oompie’s expression – while holding forth, his face draws Reitz like a magnet.

Gert Smal, chewing on a piece of wood all the while, abruptly interrupts. “What can you tell us, Oompie?” he asks. “Seen anything lately?” His voice holds a mixture of deference and scorn. Reitz takes note of this near-respectful tone, which, as far as he can tell, is unusual for Gert Smal.

“Do you have any tobacco?” the old man asks suddenly – his emotional reverie suddenly at an end. “Did you bring the old man something nice?” he asks plaintively, insidiously.

Gert Smal reaches into his jacket pocket and hands something over. Oompie unwraps it: a roll of chewing tobacco. He chews, his eyes shut in pleasure.

Reitz wonders whether Oompie remembers Gert Smal’s question or has in fact even heard it.

Gert Smal restlessly picks his teeth with the piece of wood.

Oompie scratches his head. He spits out a piece of tobacco and looks at the ground in front of him.

“These are dry times, brother,” he says. “Even the bees know it.” He makes a dramatic gesture with his right hand, without looking up. Reitz had not noticed the beehives on the right earlier; beyond them two cows are grazing and higher up a few sheep.

The meat and milk supply of the camp, Reitz realises.

Oompie gets up. Suddenly old and haggard – an old man in a shabby, greasy raincoat. He beckons them into the hut.

After the brightness outside it takes Reitz’s eyes a while to adjust to the gloom. It is the smell that he notices first, a mixture of animal pelts, rancid butter and something else, something he cannot place immediately. A cool smell, of fungi, or silt: something medicinal. He notices that Ben is also sniffing, unobtrusively trying to identify the smell.

The hut is warm inside. There is a bed on one side, a rough wooden table and chairs, and a stove on the other side – facing the door. On a wooden shelf against the back wall are a variety of glass jars and milk cans. On the stone floor buck and jackal skins lie scattered, also karosses of dassie skin. A snakeskin is stretched on one wall. A door leads to what is apparently a second room.

Oompie motions for them to sit at the table.

“Formalin,” Ben whispers suddenly, and Reitz instantly recognises the cold, medicinal smell.

From a clay pot on the table Oompie pours sour milk into tin mugs. His movements are slow and deliberate. In the dim light his coat takes on a greenish tinge – as if it has been exposed at length to dripping water, as if it is covered with moss; as if he has been swimming in it underwater.

Though Reitz is thirsty, the sour milk sticks in his throat.

They sit at the big, coarse wooden table, facing the door, but Oompie does not join them. He busies himself at the stove. “You have books,” he says. “You have big books in which you write. You are educated men. You have knowledge of hills and vales. Of the forces that create mountains. Of the birds of the sky and the flowers of the veld. Of the small animals and insects. You know each one by type and by name. But you have not reached the end of your long journey.”

“Show them a few tricks, Oompie,” Gert Smal interrupts.

The old man does not seem to hear. “You’ve been wandering for a long time,” he continues, his back still turned to them. “You’re weary of travelling. You left a leader who was ill-disposed towards you. Keep your eyes open. God’s ways are mysterious, but the ways of man are treacherous. God makes Himself known through His creation – but man’s motives are always inscrutable. One of you has a problem. It is linked with feelings of guilt.”

Reitz feels the hairs on his arm stand on end.

Gert Smal is becoming more restless; he is still cleaning his teeth with the piece of wood.

“Show them a few tricks, Oompie,” he insists.

But Oompie ignores him as one ignores a troublesome child.

At this point Gert Smal decides he has had enough. He gets up. They have to go, he says. They can’t sit around here all day.

Instantly Oompie’s expression changes.

“You wouldn’t happen to have something – pleasurable – for an old man to look forward to?” His demeanour is sly again, almost lewd.

“We’ll see what we can do, Oompie,” Gert Smal says brusquely. “We can’t promise anything.”

Before they leave Oompie gives Gert Smal a jar of honey and three cans of milk.

When they take their leave, he embraces them again. He bids them a warm and fond farewell and extends his arms over them in blessing as they depart.

*

Going back down the mountain is much quicker than going up. Gert Smal leads the way, leaping from rock to rock like a klipspringer. He certainly has energy to spare after their visit, and after his sullen silence of the morning, he is now positively garrulous.

“The old scoundrel is as randy as a billy goat! Every so often he takes himself a new wife.”

Gert Smal leaps from rock to rock with great flourish. “There was a time when he had a great many wives around here. We couldn’t keep up with his demands,” he declares.

“Goodness,” Ben remarks. “How long has he been here then?”

Gert Smal chooses not to reply.

Reitz casts a quick, furtive glance in Ben’s direction.

“Once he and his new bride have worked each other over good and proper,” Gert Smal continues, “the old bugger’s words take wing. In times of plenty his prophecies make the hills resound.”

“And how often does that happen?” Ben inquires cautiously.

“By God and the devil,” Gert Smal replies. “Not often these days. Not easy to keep up the supply nowadays. Not many young Kaffir girls left in these parts. All dead or carried off to camps, or so starved they’ve lost their appeal.”

“Really?” Ben inquires, pausing for a few moments to study an interesting-looking insect at his feet. Reitz can see Ben would dearly love to linger and inspect the beetle, but it is obvious Gert Smal will not put up with dawdlers.

“The general keeps the old fellow up here,” Gert Smal remarks over his shoulder as they struggle to catch up with him, “because he’s a bad influence on the men. He unsettles them.”

“How?” Ben inquires from his position a few paces behind Gert Smal – still cautious, for he knows the man does not welcome questions.

“The men see things. They imagine they hear voices. They have dreams.”

For a while they continue in silence.

“And besides,” Gert Smal continues, “he’s our bee man. He has a way with bees. He talks to them. He never gets stung.”

“Is that so?” Ben remarks, trying not to sound too interested.

Later still, when they have almost reached the camp, Gert Smal declares: “Actually, the old man is a great sorcerer. He was just out of sorts today.”

*

That night around the fire Gert Smal is surly at first, his high spirits of the afternoon apparently flown.

Before long, however – after their devotions, and once the evening hymn has been sung – he brings out the bottle again, and once more launches into a tirade. This time Ben and Reitz are more careful when it is their turn to drink.

“To hell with Piet Cronjé,” Gert Smal proclaims. “In 1899 he intercepted Jameson at Doornkop, and that was the only thing he ever did worth mentioning. By 1888 Paul Kruger was buying up arms for all he was worth. Wily old sod. Alfred Milner was steering the negotiations towards a declaration of war. To hell with Alfred Milner too. Twenty-two thousand Uitlanders signed a petition. Oom Paul should have shown them who was in charge right from the beginning, even before he and Milner met in Bloemfontein.”

Gert Smal spits out a piece of wood. “Milner outwitted Oom Paul right from the start – pretending to negotiate a period for giving the Uitlanders the vote. That was just his way of putting the pressure on until Oom Paul was forced to give in. No, Oom Paul said at first, there’s no way. Later he couldn’t take it any more. You want my country, he said, and bawled like a bloody woman.” Gert Smal’s voice is bitter. He takes a swig from the bottle. He continues.

“While Oom Paul was drying his tears, Milner was laughing up his sleeve. Bloody hell! To hell with Milner. No, Oom Paul said after each new concession, no, no further. Send the troops, Alfred Milner said. He knew – the bastard knew. On September the twenty-second the ultimatum came: the Uitlanders are to be given full equality, and the franchise after a year. That’s what happens when you don’t show them who’s in charge right from the start. Some people thought Oom Paul was bluffing. He had Jan Smuts draft his own ultimatum. They asked for arbitration. He should have known, Oom Paul should have known there’d be no arbitration. And Alfred Milner got what he wanted – he got his war.”

Gert Smal takes a huge swig from the bottle. He gazes into the fire grimly, as if all these events have only just taken place instead of three years ago. As if things could have gone differently.

“Alfred Milner be damned, his complete bloody English arse be damned,” he declares in measured tones, taking another swig from the bottle. (Tonight Gert Smal is too far gone to be bothered with a mug.)

“We raised our army,” he goes on. “Three generations taking up arms together. But we weren’t prepared for war. Neither was the goddamn British army.”

Shortly afterwards Japie Stilgemoed and Kosie Rijpma go to bed. But Ezekiel remains in the shadows a short distance away, just outside the light of the fire. And the dog with the yellow eyes keeps watch at Gert Smal’s feet.

“Ezekiel was reared by hand,” Gert Smal declares suddenly. “He never knew his own people.”

“Poor Kaffir,” Willem comments.

“Ezekiel knows our history,” Gert Smal says. “There’s nothing you can’t ask him about history and the Bible.”

“Poor Kaffir,” Ben confirms softly.

“The only thing you can’t teach him,” Gert Smal continues, “is to catch a joke. There’s just no way he can make head or tail of what we find funny. What do you say, my old Kaffir?” Gert Smal asks as he turns to Ezekiel, passing him a chunk of meat skewered on his pocketknife.

“You can ask him anything,” Gert Smal repeats, pausing expectantly.

“Ask him if he has a soul,” Ben remarks softly, out of earshot.

Willem, overhearing, eyes Ben reprovingly. “He’s accepted the Lord as his Redeemer, Ben. He’s a Christian, like the rest of us.”

“Well?” Gert Smal urges impatiently.

“Can he describe the descent of President Steyn?”

Crouched in the shadows, Ezekiel throws back his head, his eyeballs gleaming in the dark. For a few moments his lips move in a wordless litany before he proceeds to recite.

When he is done, there is a deathly silence.

“Right?” Gert Smal inquires triumphantly.

“Sounds right enough to me,” replies Reitz, whose father was the old president’s second cousin.

“What did I tell you?” Gert Smal cries exultantly. “In the entire land there’s no Kaffir that’s his equal!”

Shortly afterwards Willem and young Abraham turn in as well. Later, when Reitz and Ben rise, Gert Smal is still holding forth, with no one but the silent Reuben and the sleeping Seun in attendance.

That night Reitz dreams of towering cliffs and of fire upon water.

*

The next day Gert Smal orders Ezekiel to help them build shelters – like those the rest of them have. He has instructions from the general, he says, that they are to stay here for the time being.

“Goodness,” says Ben softly, “when did he get those?”

“Oh Lord,” Reitz remarks quietly to Ben, “we may be here for a long time. This calls for deliberation. Long and serious deliberation.”

“It looks that way,” says Ben.

First Ezekiel builds a strong frame of lattice and matting. He cuts the switches from the stand of poplars. Then the structure is lightly covered with thatch-grass. Ezekiel works slowly, methodically and with precision. He loops and interlaces the young green switches. He thatches and rethatches. He knots and weaves. The framework stands firm, the covering is dense. Finally the inside is lined with dried shrubs, and other aromatic grasses are laid on the ground.

While he is working, Ezekiel sings hymns in a deep, pleasant voice.

Japie Stilgemoed approaches timidly and suggests that the opening of the shelter should face north, as the cold winds blow from the south.

The shelter is sturdy and virtually waterproof; together with the soft grass mattress on which they can spread their meagre blankets, it differs considerably from the wet blankets and leaking tents that have been their home during the past months, and which they left behind when they departed from Commandant Senekal’s laager. An admirable shelter in any kind of weather; the best protection they have ever had in all their months on commando.

“Do you have peace of mind, Ben?” says Reitz. “Or does this bed come with a price?”

“Peace?” asks Ben. “Who said anything about peace?”

Later that morning they ask Gert Smal’s permission to wash their clothes down at the river. He agrees, but not without an assortment of threats. After their visit to Oompie the day before, they have a great deal to discuss. They prefer to do it out of earshot of the others.

Although they are permitted to go unaccompanied, they remain conscious of the constant presence of Seun behind some boulders further up the slope.

From the camp they follow the same path to the river as the one used the previous day when they accompanied Gert Smal to visit Oompie.

They wash themselves, they wash their clothing. In spite of the fresh morning breeze they cavort in the water like otters – for when last did they have the opportunity to do just this? Afterwards they sit on a rocky ledge to dry off in the sun.

Their necks, faces and forearms have been darkened by the sun, but Reitz notices how delicately pale the rest of Ben’s body is. He is so thin that his ribs show, and his skin has a bluish pallor that contrasts sharply with his dark hair. Reitz’s own body, though ruddier, is also much gaunter than before.

A large variety of birds are nesting on the sheer cliff face that reaches up to the sky on the opposite side of the river. Ben immediately identifies the sandmartin, the speckled pigeon. The red kaffir finch and the kingfisher. From lower down the river the fizzing zt-zt-zt of the yellow weaver, the cry of the red bishop bird on the wing and the loud whistles of the sparrow weaver are clearly audible. In the distance they hear baboons barking. Down here it is paradisiacally lush.

There are definitely otters in the area, Ben declares, he has noticed the small piles of crushed snow-white crab and other shells that they excrete. The water mongoose will also be found around here, he thinks. There are insects in abundance: dragonflies, Ben says, moths and butterflies, beetles and bugs, wasps and caddis flies – a large variety of species. He is excited. This place is so different from the barren regions through which they have been travelling for the past months.

In the afternoon the cliff will cast a deep shadow over the river, but at the moment it is sunny, the only shade provided by the shadows of overhanging branches.

Reitz shows Ben the horizontal and vertical dolerite sills clearly visible between the successive sedimentary layers of khaki-coloured shales, clay-pellet conglomerates and siltstone. These dykes and sills intersect the sedimentary layers like plumbers’ pipes, he says, and through which the red-hot lava escaped upwards. He shows Ben how the lava bed scorched the surrounding sandstone in some places, indicating how hot it must have been.

And the bank of the river opposite the cliff face, rising higher further downriver, will also be an ideal place to look for fossils, Reitz imagines.

But it is not only the geological features of the area that he finds interesting – he senses that his attention is also engaged in a different, less definable manner.

“Ben,” Reitz inquires cautiously after a while, “who and what have we got here, do you think? Where have we landed?”

“Consider it a transit camp,” Ben says, “for those temporarily and permanently unfit for battle.”

“What are we?” Reitz asks, “temporarily unfit?”

“We are still of uncertain status,” Ben says. “Something between deserters and traitors. Spies, even.”

“Yes, well,” says Reitz, “there you have it. Senekal’s doing.”

“It will all become clearer in due course,” says Ben, “I’ve heard good reports of General Bergh. Apparently he’s an intelligent, reasonable man.”

“Unlike Senekal,” says Reitz.

“Unlike Senekal. In the meantime each of us will be assigned a task,” says Ben, “until our fate has been determined.”

“Darning socks,” says Reitz. “I couldn’t take it.”

“Weigh it up against Senekal’s lunacy,” Ben counsels.

“Each of our camp-fellows seems more frightened and bewildered than the next,” says Reitz. “Gert Smal can hardly be called a rational interlocutor. Kosie Rijpma has yet to say a single word. Poor Seun barely manages to utter a few incoherent sounds. Reuben appears to be a somewhat rough diamond and Japie scurries off if one even happens to look in his direction.”

“As timid as an aardvark,” Ben says.

“And Ezekiel doesn’t count,” says Reitz.

“No,” says Ben, and smiles, “he doesn’t count.”

Ben lifts a small plant from the water by its roots. “Let’s count our blessings for now, Reitz,” he says, “until in due course our fate is determined. Young Abraham seems calmer. Apparently we aren’t expected to take up arms for the moment. Our surroundings are interesting. Our movements aren’t unduly restricted. We have a dry sleeping place.”

“It’s interesting around here, I agree,” says Reitz, “but I feel uneasy. There’s something in the air that makes my hair stand on end.”

Ben looks at him with interest.

“It’s not after our visit to Oompie, is it?” he asks.

“I can’t put my finger on it,” Reitz says evasively. He runs his hand across his face.

“Does it have anything to do with what Oompie said?” Ben persists cautiously.

“With that too, yes,” Reitz replies “but it’s also this place. Down here as well as back at camp.”

Ben still observes him keenly. “It’s bound to become clearer later,” he says after a while.

It is noon. The sun is directly overhead. The heat makes them drowsy. Their clothes are draped over rocks to dry. Lizards bask on the rocky ledges. Under the flat rocks are large river crabs. Damselflies hover motionlessly above the surface of the water.

After a while Reitz wonders aloud why Gert Smal took them along to visit Oompie. He thinks there has to be a reason. Could it have been to intimidate them, Reitz speculates. Could he have hoped the old man would say something to make them watch their step?

“Quite possible,” Ben says, “with a man like Gert Smal.”

“The old fellow made a few accurate observations,” Reitz says carefully.

Ben nods. He thinks Gert Smal might also have taken them along to learn something about them from Oompie’s observations – something about their plans and intentions. “But,” says Ben, “it’s important, Reitz, not to start imagining things at a time like this.”

He speaks while scrutinising an interesting sheathlike cocoon on a twig. “Gert Smal is obviously a restless and disagreeable soul, and for all we know Oompie really does have exceptional powers. Each of our camp-fellows has clearly been injured in his own particular way and is no longer suitable for active combat – but let’s keep the issues separate and hope that the general is a reasonable man.”

Reitz cannot but agree. He resolves to keep the issues separate and not to become unnecessarily agitated.

Ben explains that the little cocoon in his hand is the permanently inhabited grass house of a caterpillar. “The wingless, worm-shaped female moth lives inside,” he says. “It’s also called the bagworm or caseworm.”

For a while they lie on the rocks in the shade of the overhanging branches without speaking.

“Those guilt feelings, Reitz,” Ben inquires carefully after a while, “that Oompie referred to yesterday – are they for your account?”

Reitz hesitates for a while before nodding affirmatively.

During the time they spent together on commando neither of them ever spoke at length about the life they had left behind.

When their clothes are dry, they put them on and return to camp, where a surly Gert Smal awaits them. Why did they take so long? he asks. Cooking up some or other defection, he says. But don’t try anything, he warns, the general isn’t someone you’d want as an opponent.

*

On the third evening after their arrival at the camp, the day after their trip up the kloof with Gert Smal, Japie Stilgemoed suddenly breaks his silence after the evening devotions. At twilight Ezekiel turned up at camp with some potatoes. Potatoes he seems to have grown himself. They must have been here for a long time then, Ben remarks to Reitz.

Japie Stilgemoed speaks of the time at the camp where he was before when they went to fetch sweet potatoes. Everything around them had been burned down by the Khakis – except for the sweet potatoes. They dug them up and stacked them in piles. Then they put them into bags and loaded them onto a wagon. The moon was full. He will never forget it – they passed the place where General De la Rey had destroyed one hundred and sixty British wagons the year before. The wreckage still lay scattered in the moonlight.

Japie Stilgemoed stares into the fire for a long time.

“It was July of 1901 if my memory serves me right,” he says. “The sweet potatoes were a welcome respite from our daily fare of porridge without meat.”

“Cronjé had De la Rey to thank for his victory at Magersfontein,” Gert Smal says. “Without his advice the old sod would’ve been buggered.”

“That was when I began to realise that times of tribulation teach us about our own strengths and weaknesses,” says Japie Stilgemoed. He throws another log onto the fire. His gaze is intent, his hair stands on end, his domed forehead is smooth in the firelight.

Gert Smal is silent; Ben nods slowly, absorbed. They wait for Japie to continue.

Kosie Rijpma sits hunched forward with his blanket around his shoulders. He stares into the fire with close attention. His face is austere, his eyes deep in their sockets.

“So,” Japie Stilgemoed continues, “from February to May 1901 we trekked with General Kemp’s wagon laagers from Roodewal, across the Skeerpoort River, past Hekpoort on the Witwatersberg, through Hartley’s Poort, past Grobler’s Nek on the Magaliesberg, past Vlakfontein and Dwarsfontein and Leliefontein, across Vlakvarkpan, Tafelkop and Rietpan in the Lichtenburg district. Through Kwaggashoek, Syferfontein and Bokkraal. At Grootfontein we swung sharp north in the direction of Groot Marico and Koedoesfontein, then southeast again, back to Kwaggashoek, and through Swartruggens until we reached Waterval.”

Gert Smal chews on a twig, his attention elsewhere.

“I thank the Lord,” says Japie Stilgemoed, “that there were times when I could remove myself from the day’s tribulations by reading. To this day books have been my salvation. What I would have done without them, I don’t know. Whenever we came upon books left behind by the English, or in deserted houses and shops along the way, I found something to provide solace, to support me further along the way.”

Reitz thinks of their journals. Without them these past months would also have been much harder to bear.

“Fortunately we had fruit in abundance at the time,” Japie Stilgemoed continues. “Our clothes were in rags by then – the men were beginning to make clothes out of blankets. In February we celebrated the victory at Majuba. But at the same time there was Cronjé’s defeat at Paardeberg to commemorate.”

“My arse!” Gert Smal shouts. “Commemorate, my arse! Cronjé can go to hell! The hero of Paardeberg!” he says scornfully, and spits out the twig he has been chewing so forcefully that the sleeping dog wakes and leaps to its feet.

“Fooking! Fooking!” young Abraham cries, alarmed, and Willem has trouble calming him down.

“Not to mention the hero of Droogleegte,” Reitz says to Ben in an undertone.

Japie Stilgemoed, hard of hearing, appears to pay little heed to these interruptions. He seems completely absorbed in his reminiscence.

“Yes,” he says, “there was fruit in abundance in those days. We picked a bag of oranges every day. We bathed in the Crocodile River. But even more important than the fruit were the books we found along the way. It was like coming upon a treasure! More precious to me than food – more precious than gold!”

After a while Willem rises to put young Abraham to bed in his shelter. The dog with the yellow eyes has dozed off peacefully again at Gert Smal’s feet. Beyond the circle of the firelight night sounds are audible. The noiseless zigzag flitting of bats, the call of the owl and sometimes the cry of a bird somewhere near the river. Overhead the dense teeming of stars. The nights are getting colder. The cold laps at their backs and kidneys.

Reitz and Ben have noticed that nobody is expected to stand guard. Unless it is another of Ezekiel’s numerous tasks – assisted during the night by the dog. (It would be futile to ask Gert Smal, for he makes a point of not answering questions.) Would Gert Smal and the others be under the impression that they can depend on the general’s protection at all times; that despite martial law they can afford to be less vigilant?

“Even then the burghers had had enough,” Japie Stilgemoed continues. “Our predikant believed that Mauser and canon would not help us regain our independence; he believed instead in the weapons of faith, love, hope and prayer. Unfortunately some men saw in this an opportunity to make a run for it.”

“Probably thought they might as well pray at home,” Ben says.

Gert Smal snorts. “Deserters,” he says, looking at Ben and Reitz, who make a point of not reacting to his taunt.

“No war can be won with deserters,” Gert Smal declares bitterly, and Ben and Reitz glance at each other surreptitiously.

The owl hoots again. “Spotted eagle-owl,” says Ben.

Japie Stilgemoed presses on, now that he has begun.

“During one trip we lost a great many horses, some to horse-sickness. On another occasion three horses were struck by lightning. The number of dismounted men was growing all the time – there was too little room on the wagons for everyone.”

“Never seen a dead horse myself,” Reitz tells Ben softly. “Never seen a horse or a mule that has died of horse-sickness being dragged away.”

Ben shows no reaction, continues to listen politely to Japie Stilgemoed.

“And everywhere,” Japie Stilgemoed continues, “the dismal sight of burned and ruined farmhouses – the work of the Khakis.”

“Oh no,” Reitz whispers to Ben, “I don’t have the strength to listen to this.”

Ben’s nostrils flare almost imperceptibly, the only evidence of his slight irritation. “Give him a chance,” he whispers. “He needs to tell his story.”

“One day,” Japie Stilgemoed says, “we came across a swarm of flying ants. We’d never seen anything like it before. They crawled into everything.”

“Oh no,” Reitz repeats in a whisper. He can neither ignore nor explain his growing exasperation with Japie Stilgemoed.

“Sometimes it rained all night and the men would sleep in ant hills,” Japie continues, unperturbed. “I kept urging myself to endure the ordeal with patience. Of the future I asked nothing more – as I still do today – than to be reunited with my loved ones.”

At the mention of loved ones a great silence falls upon everyone, interrupted suddenly by the yellow dog, which utters a low growl, and raises the hackles on her back. An inspection of their immediate surroundings reveals nothing. The dog calms down and shortly afterwards everyone crawls into his shelter. Everyone except Ben and Reitz, who enjoy the warmth of the flames a little longer while each makes a final entry in his journal.