The Power of the Sword

By: Wilber Smith

Synopsis:

Half-brothers and blood enemies Manfred de la Rey and Shasa Courtney,
the sons of Centaine de Thiry-Courtney, are irrevocably caught up in an
age-old and savage war to seize the sword of power in their land. The
Power of the Sword follows them through two decades of South African
history in an epic story of life-long love and hate, of rivalry and
revenge, of winners and losers in a deadly struggle where only the
ruthless survive.

The novels of Wilbur Smith

The Courtney Novels: When the Lion Feeds

The Sound of Thunder

A Sparrow Falls

The Burning Shore

Power of the Sword

Rage

A Time to Die

The Ballantyne Novels: A Falcon Flies

Men of Men

The Angels Weep

The Leopard Hunts in Darkness

Also: The Dark of the Sun

Shout at the Devil

Gold Mine

The Diamond Hunters

The Sunbird

Eagle in the Sky

The Eye of the Tiger

Cry Wolf

Hungry as the Sea

Wild justice

Golden Fox

Elephant Song

River God

Power of the Sword

Wilbur Smith was born in Central Africa in 1933.  He was educated at
Michaelhouse and Rhodes University. He became a full-time writer in 1964
after the successful publication of When the Lion Feeds, and has since
written twenty-four novels, meticulously researched on his numerous
expeditions worldwide.  His work is now translated into twenty-five
languages. He normally travels from November to February, often spending
a month skiing in Switzerland, and visiting Australia and New Zealand
for sea fishing.  During his summer break he visits environments as
diverse as Alaska and the dwindling wilderness of the African interior.
He has an abiding concern for the peoples and wildlife of his native
continent, an interest strongly reflected in his novels.

He is married to Danielle, to whom his last twenty books have been
dedicated.

WILBUR SMITH

Power of the Sword

Mandarin

I dedicate this book to my wife, Danielle

A Mandarin Paperback POWER OF THE SWORD First published in Great Britain
1986

by William Heinemann Ltd This edition published 1995

by Mandarin Paperbacks an imprint of Reed International Books Ltd
Michelin House, 81 Fulham Road, London SW3 6RB and Auckland, Melbourne,
Singapore and Toronto

Reprinted 1995, 1996 (four times) Copyright C Wilbur Smith 1986

The author has asserted his moral rights A CIP catalogue record for this
title is available from the British Library ISBN 0 7493 0728 5

Phototypeset by Intype, London Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox
& Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated
without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

If I would have given way to an arbitrary way, for to have all Laws
chang'd according to the Power of the Sword, I needed not to have come
here.  King Charles I of England.

Speech on the scaffold, 30 January 1649.

The Power of the Sword

The fog smothered the ocean, muting all colour and sound.

It undulated and seethed as the first eddy of the morning breeze washed
in towards the land.  The trawler lay in the fog three miles offshore on
the edge of the current line, where the vast upwellings from the oceanic
depths, rich in life-bringing plankton, met the gentle inshore waters in
a line of darker green.

Lothar De La Rey stood in the wheelhouse and leaned on the spoked wooden
wheel as he peered out into the fog.  He loved these quiet charged
minutes of waiting in the dawn.

He could feel the electric tingle starting in his blood, the lust of the
huntsman that had sustained him countless times before, an addiction as
powerful as opium or strong spirits.

Casting back in his mind he remembered that soft pink dawn creeping
stealthily over the Magersfontein Hills as he lay against the parapets
of the trenches and waited for the lines of Highland infantry to come in
out of the darkness, to march with kilts swinging and bonnet ribbons
flutting onto their waiting Mausers, and his skin prickled with
gooseflesh at the memory.

There had been a hundred other dawns since then, waiting like this to go
out against great game, shaggy maned Kalahari lion, scabby old buffalo
with heads of armoured horn, sagacious grey elephant with wrinkled hides
and precious teeth of long ivory, but now the game was smaller than any
other and yet in its multitudes as vast as the ocean from which it came.

His train of thought was interrupted as the boy came down the open deck
from the galley.  He was barefoot and his legs were long and brown and
strong.  He was almost as tall as a grown man, so he was forced to stoop
through the wheelhouse door balancing a steaming tin mug of coffee in
each hand.

Sugar?  Lothar asked.

Four spoons, Pa.  The boy grinned back at him.

The fog had condensed in dew droplets on his long eyelashes, and he
blinked them away like a sleepy cat.  Though his curling blond head was
bleached to streaks of platinum by the sun, his eyebrows and lashes were
dense and black; they framed and emphasized his amber-coloured eyes.

Wild fish today.  Lothar crossed the fingers of his right hand in his
trouser pocket to ward off the ill luck of having said it aloud. 'We
need it, he thought.  To survive we need good wild fish.  Five years
previously he had succumbed once more to the call of the hunter's horn,
to the lure of the chase and the wilds.  He had sold out the prosperous
road and railway construction company which he had painstakingly built
UP, taken everything he could borrow and gambled it all.

He had known the limitless treasures that the cold green waters of the
Benguela Current hid.  He had glimpsed them first during those chaotic
final days of the Great War when he was making his last stand against
the hated English and their traitorous puppet Jan Smuts at the head of
his army of the Union of South Africa.

From a secret supply base among the tall desert dunes that flanked the
South Atlantic, Lothar had refuelled and armed the German U-boats that
were scourging the British mercantile fleets, and while he waited out
those dreary days at the edge of the ocean for the submarines to come,
he had seen the very ocean moved by its own limitless bounty.  it was
there merely for the taking, and in the years that followed that ignoble
peace at Versailles he made his plans while he laboured in the dust and
the heat, blasting and cleaving the mountain passes or driving his roads
straight across the shimmering plains.  He had saved and planned and
schemed for this taking.

The boats he had found in Portugal, sardine trawlers, neglected and
rotten.  There he had found Da Silva also, old and wise in the ways of
the sea.  Between them they had repaired and re-equipped the four
ancient trawlers and then with skeleton crews had sailed them southwards
down the length of the African continent.

The canning factory he had found in California, situated there to
exploit the tuna shoals by a company which had overestimated their
abundance and underestimated the costs of catching these elusive
unpredictable chicken of the sea'.

Lothar had purchased the factory for a small fraction of its original
cost and shipped it out to Africa in its entirety.  He had re-erected it
on the compacted desert sands alongside the ruined and abandoned whaling
station which had given the desolate bay its name of Walvis Bay.

For the first three seasons he and old Da Silva had found wild fish, and
they had reaped the endless shoals until Lothar had paid off the loans
that had fettered him.  He had immediately ordered new boats to replace
the decrepit Portuguese trawlers which had reached the end of their
useful lives, and in so doing had plunged himself more deeply into debt
than he had been at the outset of the venture.

Then the fish had gone.  For no reason that they could divine, the huge
shoals of pilchards had disappeared, only tiny scattered pockets
remaining.  While they searched futilely, running out to sea a hundred
miles and more, scouring the long desert coastline far beyond economic
range from the canning factory, the months marched past remorselessly,
each one bringing a note for accrued interest that Lothar could not
meet, and the running costs of factory and boats piled up so that he had
to plead and beg for further loans.

Two years with no fish.  Then dramatically, just when Lothar knew
himself beaten, there had been some subtle shift in the ocean current or
a change in the prevailing wind and the fish had returned, good wild
fish, rising thick as new grass in each dawn.

Let it last, Lothar prayed silently, as he stared out into the fog.
Please God, let it last.  Another three months, that was all he needed,
just another three short months and he would pay it off and be free
again.

She's lifting, the boy said, and Lothar blinked and shook his head
slightly, returning from his memories.

The fog was opening like a theatre curtain, and the scene it revealed
was melodramatic and stagey, seemingly too riotously coloured to be
natural as the dawn fumed and glowed like a display of fireworks, orange
and gold and green where it sparkled on the ocean, turning the twisting
columns of fog the colour of blood and roses so that the very waters
seemed to burn with unearthly fires.  The silence enhanced the magical
show, a silence heavy and lucid as crystal so that it seemed they had
been struck deaf, as though all their other senses had been taken from
them and concentrated in their vision as they stared in wonder.

Then the sun struck through, a brilliant beam of solid golden light
through the roof of the fog-bank- It played across the surface, so that
the current line was starkly lit.  The inshore water was smudged with
cloudy blue, as calm and smooth as oil.  The line where it met the up
welling of the true oceanic current was straight and sharp as the edge
of a knife-blade, and beyond it the surface was dark and ruffled as
green velvet stroked against the pile.

Daar spring hy!  Da Silva yelled from the fore-deck, pointed out to the
line of dark water There he jumps!  As the low sun struck the water a
single fish jumped.  It was just a little longer than a man's hand, a
tiny sliver of burnished silver.

Start up!  Lothar's voice was husky with excitement, and the boy flung
his mug onto the chart-table, the last few drops of coffee splashing,
and dived down the ladder-way to the engine-room below.

Lothar flipped on the switches and set the throttle as below him the boy
stooped to the crank-handle.

Swing it!  Lothar shouted down and the boy braced himself and heaved
against the compression of all four cylinders.

He was not quite thirteen years old but already he was almost as strong
as a man, and there was bulging muscle in his back as he worked.

Now!  Lothar closed the valves, and the engine, still warm from the run
out from the harbour, fired and caught and roared.  There was a belch of
oily black smoke from the exhaust port in the side of the hull and then
she settled to a regular beat.

The boy scrambled up the ladder and shot out onto the deck, racing up
into the bows beside Da Silva.

Lothar swung the bows over and they ran down on the current line. The
fog blew away, and they saw the other boats.  They, too, had been lying
quietly in the fog-bank, waiting for the first rays of the sun, but now
they were running down eagerly on the current line, their wakes cutting
long rippling Vs across the placid surface and the bow waves creaming
and flashing in the new sunlight.  Along each rail the crews craned out
to peer ahead, and the jabber of their excited voices carried above the
beat of the engines.

From the glassed wheelhouse Lothar had an all-round view over the
working areas of the fifty-foot trawler and he made one final check of
the preparations.  The long net was laid out down the starboard rail,
the corkline coiled into meticulous spirals.  The dry weight of the net
was seven and a half tons, wet it would weigh many times heavier.  It
was five hundred feet long and in the water hung down from the cork
floats like a gauzy curtain seventy feet deep.  It had cost Lothar over
five thousand pounds, more money than an ordinary fisherman would earn
in twenty years of unremitting toil, and each of his other three boats
was so equipped.  From the stern, secured by a heavy painter, each
trawler towed its bucky an eighteen-foot-long clinker-built dinghy.

With one long hard glance, Lothar satisfied himself that all was ready
for the throw, and then looked ahead just as another fish jumped.

This time it was so close that he could see the dark lateral lines along
its gleaming flank, and the colour difference, ethereal green above the
line and hard gleaming silver below.  Then it plopped back, leaving a
dark dimple on the surface.

As though it was a signal, instantly the ocean came alive.

The waters turned dark as though suddenly shaded by heavy cloud, but
this cloud was from below, rising up from the
depths, and the waters roiled as though a monster moved
beneath them.

,Wild fish!  screamed Da Silva, turning his weathered and creased brown
face back over his shoulder towards Lothar, and at the same time
spreading his arms to take in the sweep of ocean which moved with fish.

A mile wide and so deep that its far edge was hidden in the lingering
fog-banks, a single dark shoal lay before them.

In all the years as a hunter, Lothar had never seen such an accumulation
of life, such a multitude of a single species.

Beside this the locusts that could curtain and block off the African
noon sun and the flocks of tiny quelea birds whose combined weight broke
the boughs from the great trees on which they roosted, were
insignificant.  Even the crews of which the racing trawlers fell silent
and stared in awe as the shoal broke the surface and the waters turned
white and sparkled like a snow bank; countless millions of tiny scaly
bodies Caught the sunlight as they were lifted clear of the water by the
press of an infinity of their own kind beneath them.

Da Silva was the first to rouse himself.  He turned and ran back down
the deck, quick and agile as a youth, passing only at the door of the
wheelhouse.  Maria, Mother of God, grant we still have a net when this
day ends.  It was a poignant warning and then the old mail ran to the
stern and scrambled over the gunwale into the trailing dinghy while at
his example the rest of the crew roused themselves and hurried to their
stations.

Manfred!  Lothar called his son, and the boy who had stood mesmerized in
the bows bobbed his head obediently and ran back to his father.

Take the wheel.  It was an enormous responsibility for one so young, but
Manfred had Proved himself so many times before that Lothar felt no
misgiving as he ducked out of the wheelhouse.  In the bows he signalled
without looking over his shoulder and he felt the deck cant beneath his
feet as Manfred spun the wheel, following his father's signal to begin a
wide circle around the shoal.

So much fish, Lothar whispered.  As his eyes estimated
distance and wind and current, old Da Silva's warning was in the
forefront of his calculations: the trawler and its net could handle 150
tons of these nimble silver pilchards, with skill and luck perhaps 200
tons.

Before him lay a shoal of millions of tons of fish.  An injudicious
throw could fill the net with ten or twenty thousand tons whose weight
and momentum could rip the mesh to tatters, might even tear the entire
net loose, snapping the main cork line or pulling the bollards from the
deck and dragging it down into the depths.  Worse still, if the fines
and bollards held, the trawler might be pulled over by the weight and
capsize.  Lothar might lose not only a valuable net but the boat and the
lives of his crew and his son as well.

Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder and Manfred grinned at him
through the window of the wheelhouse, his face alight with excitement.
With his dark amber eyes glowing and white teeth flashing, he was an
image of his mother and Lothar felt a bitter pang before he turned back
to work.

Those few moments of inattention had nearly undone Lothar.  The trawler
was rushing down on the shoal within moments it would drive over the
mass of fish and they would sound; the entire shoal, moving in that
mysterious unison as though it were a single organism, would vanish back
into the ocean depths.  Sharply he signalled the turn away, and the boy
responded instantly.  The trawler spun on its heel and they bore down
the edge of the shoal, keeping fifty feet off, waiting for the
opportunity.

Another quick glance around showed Lothar that his other skippers were
warily backing off also, daunted by the sheer mass of pilchards they
were circling.  Swart Hendrick glared across at him, a huge black bull
of a man with his bald head shining like a cannonball in the early
sunlight.  Companion of war and a hundred desperate endeavours, like
Lothar he had readily made the transition from land to sea and now was
as skilled a fisherman as once he had been a hunter of ivory and of men.
Lothar flashed him the underhand cut-out signal for caution and danger
and Swart Hendrick laughed soundlessly and waved an acknowledgement.

Gracefully as dancers, the four boats weaved and pirouetted around the
massive shoal as the last shreds of the fog dissolved and blew away on
the light breeze.  The sun cleared the horizon and the distant dunes of
the desert glowed like bronze fresh from the forge, a dramatic backdrop
to the developing hunt.

Still the massed fish held its compact formation, and Lothar was
becoming desperate.  They had been on the surface for over an hour now
and that was longer than usual.

At any moment they might sound and vanish, and not one of his boats had
thrown a net.  They were thwarted by abundance, beggars in the presence
of limitless treasure, and Lothar felt a recklessness rising in him.  He
had waited too long already.

Throw, and be damned!  he thought, and signalled Manfred in closer,
narrowing his eyes against the glare as they turned into the sun.

Before he could commit himself to folly, he heard Da Silva whistle, and
when he looked back the Portuguese was standing on the thwart of the
dinghy and gesticulating wildly.  Behind them the shoal was beginning to
bulge.  The solid circular mass was altering shape. Out of it grew a
tentacle, a pimple, no, it was more the shape of a head on a thin neck
as part of the shoal detached itself from the main body.  This was what
they had been waiting for.

Manfred!  Lothar yelled and wind-milled his right arm.

The boy spun the wheel, and she came around and they went tearing back,
aiming the bows at the neck of the shoal like the blade of an
executioner's axe.

,slow down!  Lothar flapped his hand and the trawler checked. Gently she
nosed up to the narrow neck of the shoal.  The water was so clear that
Lothar could see the individual fish, each encapsuled in its rainbow of
prismed sunlight, and beneath the dark green bulk of the rest of the
shoal as dense as an iceberg.

Delicately Lothar and Manfred eased the trawler's bows into the living
mass, the propeller barely turning so as not to alarm it and force it to
sound.  The narrow neck split before the bows, and the small pocket of
fish that was the bulge detached itself.  Like a sheep-dog with its
flock, Lothar worked them clear, backing and turning and easing ahead as
Manfred followed his hand signals.

Still too much!  Lothar muttered to himself.  They had separated a
minute portion of the shoal from the main body, but Lothar estimated it
was still well over a thousand tons even more depending on the depth of
fish beneath that he could only guess at.

It was a risk, a high risk.  From the corner of his eye he could see Da
Silva agitatedly signalling caution, and now he whistled, squeaking with
agitation.  The old man was afraid of this much fish and Lothar grinned;
his Yellow eyes narrowed and glittered like polished topaz as he
signalled Manfred up to throwing speed and deliberately turned his back
on the old man.

At five knots he checked Manfred and brought him around in a tight turn,
forcing the pocket of fish to bunch up in the centre of the circle, and
then as they came around the second time and the trawler passed downwind
of the shoal, Lothar spun to face the stern and cupped both hands to his
mouth.

Los!  he bellowed.  Throw her loose!  The black Herero crewman standing
on the stern flipped the slippery knot that held the painter of the
dinghy and threw it overboard.  The little wooden dinghy, with Da Silva
clinging to the gunwale and still howling protests, fell away behind
them, bobbing in their wake, and it pulled the end of the heavy brown
net over the side with it.

As the trawler steamed in its circle about the shoal, the coarse brown
mesh rasped and hissed out over the wooden rail, the cork line uncoiled
like a python and streamed overside, an umbilical cord between the
trawler and the dinghy.

Coming around across the wind, the line of corks, evenly spaced as beads
on a string, formed a circle around the dense dark shoal and now the
dinghy with Da Silva slumped in resignation was dead ahead.

Manfred balanced the wheel against the drag of the great net, making
minute adjustments as he laid the trawler alongside the rocking dinghy
and shut the throttle as they touched lightly.  Now the net was closed,
hemming in the shoal, and Da Silva scrambled up the side of the trawler
with the ends of the heavy three-inch manila lines over his shoulder.

YoU'll lose your net, he howled at Lothar.  Only a crazy man would close
the purse on this shoal, they'll run away with your net. St Anthony and
the blessed St Mark are my witnesses!  But under Lothar's terse
direction the Herero crewmen were already into the routine of net
recovery.  Two of them lifted the main cork line off Da Silva s
shoulders and made it fast, while another was helping Lothar lead the
purse line to the main winch.

It's my net, and my fish, Lothar grunted at him as he started the winch
with a clattering roar.  Get the bucky hooked on!  The net was hanging
seventy feet deep into the clear green water, but the bottom was open.
The first and urgent task was to close it before the shoal discovered
this escape.

Crouched over the winch, the muscles in his bare arms knotting and
bunching beneath the tanned brown skin, Lothar was swinging his
shoulders rhythmically as he brought the purse line in hand over hand
around the revolving drum of the winch.  The purse line running through
the steel rings around the bottom of the net was closing the mouth like
the drawstring of a monstrous tobacco pouch.

in the wheelhouse Manfred was using delicate touches of forward and
reverse to manoeuvre the stern of the trawler away from the net and
prevent it fouling the propeller, while old Da Silva had worked the
dinghy out to the far side of the cork line and hooked onto it to
provide extra buoyancy for the critical moment when the oversized shoal
realized that it was trapped and began to panic.  Working swiftly,
Lothar hauled in the heavy purse line until at last the bunch of steel
rings came in glistening and streaming over the side.

The net was closed, the shoal was in the bag.

With sweat running down his cheeks and soaking his shirt, Lothar leaned
against the gunwale so winded that he could not speak.  His long
silver-white hair, heavy with sweat, streamed down over his forehead and
into his eyes as he gesticulated to Da Silva.

The cork line was laid out in a neat circle on the gentle undulating
swells of the cold green Benguela Current, with the bucky hooked onto
the side farthest from the trawler.

But as Lothar watched it, gasping and heaving for breath, the circle of
bobbing corks changed shape, elongating swiftly as the shoal felt the
net for the first time and in a concerted rush pushed against it.  Then
the thrust was reversed as the shoal turned and rushed back, dragging
the net and the dinghy with it as though it were a scrap of floating
seaweed.

The power of the shoal was as irresistible as Leviathan.

By God, we've got even more than I reckoned, Lothar panted. Then,
rousing himself, he flicked the wet blond hair from his eyes and ran to
the wheelhouse.

The shoal was surging back and forth in the net, tossing the dinghy
about lightly on the churning waters, and Lothar felt the deck of the
trawler list sharply under him as the mass of fish dragged abruptly on
the heavy lines.

Da Silva was right.  They are going crazy, he whispered, and reached for
the handle of the foghorn.  He blew three sharp ringing blasts, the
request for assistance, and as he ran back onto the deck he saw the
other three trawlers turn and race towards him.  None of them had as yet
plucked up the courage to throw their own nets at the huge shoal.

Hurry!  Damn you, hurry!  Lothar snarled ineffectually at them, and then
at his crew, All hands to dry up!  His crew hesitated, hanging back,
reluctant to handle that net.

Move, you black bastards!  Lothar bellowed at them, setting the example
by leaping to the gunwale.  They had to compress the shoal, pack the
tiny fish so closely as to rob them of their strength.

The net was coarse and sharp as barbed wire, but they bent to it in a
row, using the roll of the hull in the low swell

to work the net in by hand, recovering a few feet with each concerted
heave.

Then the shoal surged again, and all the net they had won was ripped
from their hands.  One of the Herero crew was too slow to let it go and
the fingers of his right hand were caught in the coarse mesh. The flesh
was stripped off his fingers like a glove, leaving bare white bone and
raw flesh.

He screamed and clutched the maimed hand to his chest, trying to staunch
the spurt of bright blood.  It sprayed into his own face and ran down
the sweat polished black skin of his chest and belly and soaked into his
breeches.

Manfred!  Lothar yelled.  See to him!  and he switched all his attention
back to the net.  The shoal was sounding, dragging one end of the cork
line below the surface, and a small part of the shoal escaped over the
top, spreading like dark green smoke across the bright waters.

Good riddance, Lothar muttered, but the vast bulk of the shoal was still
trapped and the cork line bobbed to the surface.  Again the shoal surged
downwards, and this time the heavy fifty-foot trawler listed over
dangerously so that the crew clutched for handholds, their faces turning
ashy grey beneath their dark skin.

Across the circle of cork line the dinghy was dragged over sharply, and
it did not have the buoyancy to resist.  Green water poured in over the
gunwale, swamping it.

Jump!  Lothar yelled at the old man.  Get clear of the net! They both
understood the danger.

The previous season one of their crew had fallen into the net. The fish
had immediately pushed against him in unison, driving him below the
surface, fighting against the resistance of his body in their efforts to
escape.

When, hours later, they had at last recovered the corpse from the bottom
of the net, they had found that the fish had been forced by their own
efforts and the enormous pressures in the depths of the trapped shoal
into all the man's body openings.  They had thrust down his open mouth
into his belly; they had been driven like silver daggers into the
eye-sockets, displacing the eyeballs and entering the brain. They had
even burst through the threadbare stuff of his breeches and penetrated
his anus so that his belly and bowels were stuffed with dead fish and he
was bloated like a grotesque balloon.  It was a sight none of them would
ever forget.

Get clear of the net!  Lothar screamed again and Da Silva threw himself
over the far side of the sinking dinghy just as it was dragged beneath
the surface.  He splashed frantically as his heavy seaboots began to
drag him under.

However, Swart Hendrick was there to rescue him.  He laid his trawler
neatly alongside the bulging cork line, and two of his crew hauled Da
Silva up the side while the others crowded the rail and under Swart
Hendrick's direction hooked onto the far side of the net.

If only the net holds, Lothar grunted, for the two other trawlers had
come up now and fastened onto the cork line.

The four big boats formed a circle around the captive shoal and, working
in a frenzy, the crewmen stooped over the net and started to dry up.

Foot by foot they hauled up the net, twelve men on each trawler, even
Manfred taking his place at his father's shoulder.  They grunted and
heaved and sweated, fresh blood on their torn hands when the shoal
surged and burning agony in their backs and bellies, but slowly, an inch
at a time, they subdued the huge shoal, until at last it was dried up',
and the upper fish were flapping helplessly high and dry on the
compacted mass of their fellows I who were drowning and dying in the
crush.

Dip them out Lothar shouted, and on each of the trawlers the three
dip-men pulled the long-handled dip-nets from the racks over the top of
the wheelhouses and dragged them down the deck.

The dip-nets were the same shape as a butterfly-net, or those little
hand nets with which children catch shrimps and crabs in rock pools at
the seaside.  The handles of these nets, however, were thirty feet long
and the net purse could scoop up a ton of living fish at a time.  At
three points around the steel ring that formed the mouth of the net were
attached manila lines; these were spliced to the heavier winch line by
which the dip-net was lifted and lowered.  The foot of the net could be
opened or closed by a purse line through a set of smaller rings, exactly
the same arrangement as the closure of the great main net.

While the dip-net was manhandled into position, Lothar and Manfred were
knocking the covers off the hatch of the hold.  Then they hurried to
their positions, Lothar on the winch and Manfred holding the end of the
purse line of the dip-net.  with a squeal and clatter Lothar winched the
dip-net high onto the derrick above their heads while the three men on
the long handle swung the net outboard over the trapped and struggling
shoal.  Manfred jerked hard on the purse line, closing the bottom of the
dip-net.

Lothar slammed the winch gear into reverse and with another squeal of
the pulley block the heavy head of the net dropped into the silver mass
of fish.  The three dip-men leaned all their weight on the handle,
forcing the net deeply into the living porridge of pilchards.

Coming up!  Lothar yelled and changed the winch into forward gear.  The
net was dragged upwards through the shoal and burst out filled with a
ton of quivering, flapping pilchards.  With Manfred grimly hanging onto
the purse line, the full net was swung inboard over the gaping hatch of
the hold.

Let go!  Lothar shouted at his son, and Manfred released the purse line.
The bottom of the net opened and a ton of pilchards showered down into
the open hold.  The tiny scales had been rubbed from the bodies of the
fish by this rough treatment and now they swirled down over the men on
the deck like snowflakes, sparkling in the sunlight with pretty shades
of pink and rose and gold.

As the net emptied, Manfred jerked the purse line closed and the dip-men
swung the handle outboard, the winch squealed into reverse and the net
dropped into the shoal for the whole sequence to be repeated. on each of
the other three trawlers the dip-men and winch driver also were hard at
work, and every few seconds another ton load of fish, seawater and
clouds of translucent scales streaming from it, was swung over the
waiting hatches and poured into them.

It was heartbreaking, back-straining work, monotonous and repetitive,
and each time the net swung overhead the crew were drenched with icy
seawater and covered with scales.  As the dip-men faltered with
exhaustion, the skippers changed them without breaking the rhythm of
swing and lift and drop, spelling the men working on the main net with
those on the handle of the dip-net, although Lothar remained at the
winch, tall and alert and indefatigable, his white-blond hair, thick
with glittering fish scales, shining in the sunlight like a beacon fire.

Silver three-pennies.  He grinned to himself, as the fish showered into
the holds on all four of his trawlers.  Shiny three-penny bits, not
fish.  We will take in a deck-load of tickeys today.  Tickey was the
slang for a three-penny coin.

Deck-load!  he bellowed across the diminishing circle of the main net to
where Swart Hendrick worked at his own winch, stripped to the waist and
glistening like polished ebony.

Deck-load!  he bellowed back at Lothar, revelling in the physical effort
which allowed him to flaunt his superior strength in the faces of his
crew.  Already the holds of the trawlers were brimming full, each of
them had over a hundred and fifty tons aboard, and now they were going
to deck-load.

Again it was a risk.  Once loaded, the boats could not be lightened
again until they reached harbour and were pumped out into the factory.
Deck-loading would burden each hull with another hundred tons of dead
weight, far over the safe limit.  If the weather turned, if the wind
switched into the north-west, then the giant sea that would build up
rapidly would hammer the overloaded trawlers into the cold green depths.

The weather will hold, Lothar assured himself as he toiled at the winch.
He was on the crest of a wave; nothing could stop him now.  He had taken
one fearsome risk and it had paid him with nearly a thousand tons of
fish, four deck-loads of fish, worth fifty pounds a ton in profits.
Fifty thousand pounds in a single throw.  The greatest stroke of fortune
of his life.  He could have lost his net or his boat or his life,
instead he had paid off his debts with one throw of the net.

By God,he whispered, as he slaved at the winch, nothing can go wrong
now, nothing can touch me now.  I'm free and clear.  So with the holds
full they began to deck-load the trawlers, filling them to the tops of
the gunwales with a silver swamp of fish into which the crew sank
waist-deep as they dried the net and swung the long handle of the dip.

Over the four trawlers hovered a dense white cloud of seabirds, adding
their voracious squawking and screeching to the cacophony of the
winches, diving into the purse of the net to gorge themselves until they
could eat no more, could not even fly but drifted away on the current,
bloated and uncomfortable, feathers started and throats straining to
keep down the contents of their swollen crops.  At the bows and stern of
each trawler stood a man with a sharpened boat-hook, with which he
stabbed and hacked at the big sharks that thrashed at the surface in
their efforts to reach the mass of trapped fish.  Their razor-sharp
triangular fangs could cut through even the tough mesh of the net.

While the birds and sharks gorged, the hulls of the trawlers sank lower
and still lower into the water, until at last a little after the sun had
nooned even Lothar had to call enough.  There was no room for another
load; each time they swung one aboard it merely slithered over the side
to feed the circling sharks.

Lothar switched off the winch.  There was probably another hundred tons
of fish still floating in the main net, most of them drowned and
crushed.  Empty the net, he ordered.  Let them go!  Get the net on
board.  The four trawlers, each of them so low in the water that
seawater washed in through the scuppers at each roll, and their speed
reduced to an ungainly waddling motion like a string of heavily pregnant
ducks, turned towards the land in line astern with Lothar leading them.

Behind them they left an area of almost half a square mile of the ocean
carpeted with dead fish, floating silver belly up, as thick as autumn
leaves on the forest floor.  On top of them drifted thousands of
satiated seagulls and beneath them the big sharks swirled and feasted
still.

The exhausted crews dragged themselves through the quick-sands of still
quivering kicking fish that glutted the deck to the forecastle
companionway.  Below deck they threw themselves still soaked with
fish-slime and seawater onto their cramped bunks.

In the wheelhouse Lothar drank two mugs of hot coffee then checked the
chronometer above his head.

Four hours run back to the factory, he said.  Just time for our lessons.
Oh, Pa!  the boy pleaded.  Not today, today is special.  Do we have to
learn today?  There was no school at Walvis Bay.  The nearest was the
German School at Swakopmund, thirty kilometres away.

Lothar had been both father and mother to the boy from the very day of
his birth.  He had taken him wet and bloody from the child-bed. His
mother had never even laid eyes upon him.

That had been part of their unnatural bargain.  He had reared the boy
alone, unaided except for the milk that the brown Nama wet-nurses had
provided.  They had grown so close that Lothar could not bear to be
parted from him for a single day.  He had even taken over his education
rather than send him away.

No day is that special, he told Manfred.  Every day we learn. Muscles
don't make a man strong.  He tapped his head.  This is what makes a man
strong.  Get the books!  Manfred rolled his eyes at Da Silva for
sympathy but he knew better than to argue further.

Take the wheel.  Lothar handed over to the old boatman and went to sit
beside his son at the small chart-table.  Not arithmetic.  He shook his
head.  It's English today., I hate English!  Manfred declared
vehemently.  I hate English and I hate the English.  Lothar nodded. Yes!
he agreed.  The English are our enemies.  They have always been and
always will be our enemies.

That is why we have to arm ourselves with their weapons.

That is why we learn the language, so when the time comes we will be
able to use it in the battle against them.  He spoke in English for the
first time that day.  Manfred started to reply in Afrikaans, the South
African Dutch patois that had only obtained recognition as a separate
language and been adopted as an official language of the Union of South
Africa in 1918, over a year before Manfred was born.

Lothar held up his hand to stop him.

English, he admonished.  Speak English only.  For an hour they worked
together, reading aloud from the King James version of the Bible and
from a two-month-old COPY of the Cape Times, and then Lothar set him a
page of dictation.  The labour in this unfamiliar language made Manfred
fidget and frown and nibble his pencil, until at last he could contain
himself no longer.

Tell me about Grandpa, and the oath!  he wheedled his father.

Lothar grinned.  You're a cunning little monkey, aren't you. Anything to
get out of work.  Please, Pa, I've told you a hundred times.  Tell me
again.  It's a special day.  Lothar glanced out of the wheelhouse window
at the precious silver cargo.  The boy was right, it was a very special
day.  Today he was free and clear of debt, after five long hard years.

All right.  He nodded.  I'll tell you again, but in English. And Manfred
shut his exercise book with an enthusiastic snap and leaned across the
table, his amber eyes glowing with anticipation.

The story of the great rebellion had been repeated so often that Manfred
had it by heart and he corrected any discrepancy or departure from the
original, or called his father back if he left out any of the details.

Well then, Lothar started, when the treacherous English King George V
declared war on Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany in 1914, your grandpa and I
knew our duty.  We kissed your grandmother goodbye What colour was my
grandmother's hair?  Manfred demanded.

Your grandmother was a beautiful German noblewoman, and her hair was the
colour of ripe wheat in the sunlight.  just like mine, Manfred prompted
him.

Just like yours, Lothar smiled.  And Grandpa and I rode out on our
war-horses to join old General Maritz and his six hundred heroes on the
banks of the orange river where he was about to go out against old Slim
Jannie Smuts., Slim was the Afrikaans word for tricky or treacherous,
and Manfred nodded avidly.

Go on, Pa, go on!  When Lothar reached the description of the first
battle in which Jannie Smuts troops had smashed the rebellion with
machine-guns and artillery, the boy's eyes clouded with sorrow.

But you fought like demons, didn't you, Pa?  We fought like madmen, but
there were too many of them and they were armed with great cannons and
machine-guns.

Then your grandpa was hit in the stomach and I put him up on my horse
and carried him off the battlefield.  Fat tears glistened in the boy's
eyes now as Lothar ended.

When at last he was dying your grandfather took the old black Bible from
the saddle bag on which his head was pillowed, and he made me swear an
oath upon the book.  I know the oath, Manfred cut in. 'Let me tell it?
What was the oath?  Lothar nodded agreement.

Grandpa said: "Promise me, my son, with your hand upon the book, promise
me that the war with the English will never end." Yes, Lothar nodded
again.  That was the oath, the solemn oath I made to my father as he lay
dying.  He reached out and took the boy's hand and squeezed it hard.

Old Da Silva broke the mood; he coughed and hawked and spat through the
wheelhouse window.  You should be ashamed, filling the child's head with
hatred and death, he said, and Lothar stood up abruptly.

Guard your mouth, old man, he warned.  This is no business of yours.
Thank the Holy Virgin, Da Silva grumbled, for that is devil's business
indeed.  Lothar scowled and turned away from him.  Manfred, that's
enough for today.  Put the books away.  He swung out of the wheelhouse
and scrambled up onto the roof.  As he settled comfortably against the
coaming, he took a long black cheroot from his top pocket and bit off
the tip.  He spat the stub overside and patted his pockets for the
matches.  The boy stuck his head over the edge of the coaming, hesitated
shyly and when his father did not send him away, sometimes he was moody
and withdrawn and wanted to be alone, Manfred crept up and sat beside
him.

Lothar cupped his hands around the flare of the match and sucked the
cheroot smoke down deeply into his lungs and then he held up the match
and let the wind extinguish it.  He flicked it overboard, and let his
arm fall casually over his son's shoulders.

The boy shivered with delight, physical display of affection from his
father was so rare, and he pressed closer to him and sat still as he
could, barely breathing so as not to disturb or spoil the moment.

The little fleet ran in towards the land, and turned the sharp northern
horn of the bay.  The seabirds were returning with them, squadrons of
yellow-throated gannets in long regular lines skimming low over the
cloudy green waters, and the lowering sun gilded them and burned upon
the tall bronze dunes that rose like a mountain range behind the tiny
insignificant cluster of buildings that stood at the edge of the bay.

I hope Willem has had enough sense to fire up the boilers, Lothar
murmured.  We have enough work here to keep the factory busy all night
and all tomorrow.  We'll never be able to can all this fish, the boy
whispered.

No, we will have to turn most of it to fish oil and fish meal, Lothar
broke off and stared across the bay.  Manfred felt his body stiffen and
then, to the boy's dismay, he lifted his arm off his son's shoulders and
shaded his eyes.

The bloody fool, he growled.  With his hunter's vision he had picked out
the distant stack of the factory boilerhouse.

It was smokeless.  What the hell is he playing at?  Lothar leapt to his
feet and balanced easily against the trawler's motion.  He has let the
boilers go cold.  It will take five or six hours to refire them and our
fish will begin to spoil.

Damn him, damn him to hell!  Raging still, Lothar dropped down to the
wheelhouse.  As he yanked the foghorn to alert the factory, he snapped,
With the money from the fish I'm going to buy one of Marconi's
newfangled short-wave radio machines so we can talk to the factory while
we are at sea; then this sort of thing won't happen.  He broke off again
and stared.  What the hell is going on!  He snatched the binoculars from
the bin next to the control panel and focused them.

They were close enough now to see the small crowd at the main doors of
the factory.  The cutters and packers in their rubber aprons and boots.

They should have been at their places in the factory.

There is Willem.  The factory manager was standing on the end of the
long wooden unloading jetty that thrust out into the still waters of the
bay on its heavy teak pilings.

What the hell is he playing at, the boilers cold and everybody hanging
about outside?  There were two strangers with Willem, standing one on
each side of him.  They were dressed in dark civilian suits and they had
that self-important, puffed-up look of petty officialdom that Lothar
knew and dreaded.

Tax collectors or other civil servants, Lothar whispered, and his anger
cooled and was replaced with unease.  No minion of the government had
ever brought him good news.

Trouble, he guessed.  Just now when I have a thousand tons of fish to
cook and can, Then he noticed the motor cars.  They had been screened by
the factory building until Da Silva made the turn into the main channel
that would bring the trawler up to the off-loading jetty. There were two
cars.  One was a battered old T model Ford, but the other, even though
covered with a pale coating of fine desert dust, was a much grander
machine, and Lothar felt his heart trip and his breathing alter.

There could not be two similar vehicles in the whole of Africa. it was
an elephantine Daimler, painted daffodil yellow.  The last time he had
seen it, it had been parked outside the offices of the Courtney Mining
and Finance Company in the Main Street of Windhoek.

Lothar had been on his way to discuss an extension of his loans from the
company.  He had stood on the opposite side of the wide dusty unpaved
street and watched as she came down the broad marble steps, flanked by
two of her obsequious employees in dark suits and high celluloid
collars; one of them had opened the door of the magnificent yellow
machine for her and bowed her into the driver's seat while the other had
run to take the crank handle.  Scorning a chauffeur, she had driven off
herself, not even glancing in Lothar's direction, and left him pale and
trembling with the conflicting emotions that the mere sight of her had
evoked.  That had been almost a year before.

Now he roused himself as Da Silva laid the heavily burdened trawler
alongside the jetty.  They were so low in the water that Manfred had to
toss the bow mooring-line up to one of the men on the jetty above him.

Lothar, these men, they want to speak to you.  Willem called down.  He
was sweating nervously as he jerked a thumb at the man who flanked him.

Are you Mr Lothar De La Rey?  the smaller of the two strangers demanded,
pushing his dusty fedora hat onto the back of his head and mopping the
pale line of skin that was exposed beneath the brim.

That's right.  Lothar glared up at him with his clenched fists upon his
hips.  And who the hell are your Are you the owner of the South west
African Canning and Fishing Company?  Ja!  Lothar answered him in
Afrikaans.  I am the owner and what of it?  I am the sheriff of the
court in Windhoek, and I have here a writ of attachment over all the
assets of the company.  The sheriff brandished the document he held.

They've closed the factory, Willem called down to Lothar miserably, his
moustaches quivering.  They made me draw the fires on my boilers.  You
can't do that!  Lothar snarled, and his eyes slitted yellow and fierce
as those of an angry leopard.  I've got a thousand tons of fish to
process.  Are these the four trawlers registered in the company's name?
the sheriff went on, unperturbed by the outburst, but he unbuttoned his
dark jacket and pulled it back as he placed both hands on his hips.  A
heavy Webley service revolver hung on a leather holster from his belt.
He turned his head to watch the other trawlers mooring at their berths
on each side of the jetty, then without waiting for Lothar to answer he
went on placidly, My assistant will place the court seals on them and
their cargoes.  I must warn you that it will be a criminal offence to
remove either the boats or their cargoes.  You can't do this to me!
Lothar swarmed up the ladder onto the jetty.  His tone was no longer
belligerent.  I have to get my fish processed. Don't you understand?
They'll be stinking to the heavens by tomorrow morning They are not your
fish.  The sheriff shook his head.  They belong to the Courtney Mining
and Finance Company., He gestured to his assistant impatiently.  Get on
with it, man.  And he began to turn away.

She's here, Lothar called after him, and the sheriff turned back to face
him again.

She's here, Lothar repeated.  That's her car.  She has come herself,
hasn't she?  The sheriff dropped his eyes and shrugged, but Willem
gobbled a reply.

Yes, she's here, she's waiting in my office.  Lothar turned away from
the group and strode down the jetty, his heavy oilskin breeches rustling
and his fists still bunched as though he were going into a fight.

The agitated crowd of factory hands was waiting for him at the head of
the jetty.

What is happening, Baas?  they pleaded.  They won't let us work.

What must we do, Ou Baas?  Wait!  Lothar ordered them brusquely.  I will
fix this.  Will we get our pay, Baas?  We've got children, 'You'll be
paid, Lothar snapped, I promise you that.  It was a promise he could not
keep, not until he had sold his fish, and he pushed his way through them
and strode around the corner of the factory towards the manager's
office.

The Daimler was parked outside the door, and a boy leaned against the
front mudguard of the big yellow machine.  It was obvious that he was
disgruntled and bored.  He was perhaps a year older than Manfred but an
inch or so shorter and his body was slimmer and neater.  He wore a white
shirt that had wilted a little in the heat, and his fashionable Oxford
bags of grey flannel were dusty and too modish for a boy of his age, but
there was an unstudied grace about him, and he was beautiful as a girl,
with flawless skin and dark indigo eyes.

Lothar came up short at the sight of him, and before he could stop
himself, he said, Shasa!  The boy straightened up quickly and flicked
the lock of dark hair off his forehead.

How do you know my name?  he asked, and despite his tone the dark blue
eyes sparkled with interest as he studied Lothar with a level, almost
adult self-assurance.

There were a hundred answers Lothar could have given, and they crowded
to his lips: Once, many years ago, I saved you and your mother from
death in the desert..  .  I helped wean you, and carried you on the
pommel of my saddle when you were a baby ...  I loved you, almost as
much as once I loved your mother ...  You are Manfred's brother you are
half brother to my own son.  I'd recognize you anywhere, even after a t
s time.  But instead he said, Shasa is the Bushman word for "Good
Water", the most precious substance in the Bushman world.  That's right.
Shasa Courtney nodded.  The man interested him.  There was a restrained
violence and cruelty in him, an impression of untapped strength, and his
eyes were strangely light coloured, almost yellow like those of a cat.
You're right.  It's a Bushman name, but my Christian name is Michel.
That's French.  My mother is French.  Where is she?  Lothar demanded,
and Shasa glanced at the office door.

She doesn't want to be disturbed, he warned, but Lothar De La Rey
stepped past him, so closely that Shasa could smell the fish smell on
his oilskins and see the small white fish scales stuck to his tanned
skin.

You'd best knock, Shasa dropped his voice, but Lothar ignored him and
flung the door of the office open so that it crashed back on its hinges.
He stood in the open door and Shasa could see past him. His mother rose
from the straight-backed chair by the window and faced the door.

She was slim as a girl, and the yellow crape-de-chine of her dress was
draped over her small fashionably flattened breasts and was gathered in
a narrow girdle low around her hips.  Her narrow-brimmed cloche hat was
pulled down, covering the dense dark bush of her hair, and her eyes were
huge and almost black.

She looked very young, not much older than her son, until she raised her
chin and showed the hard, determined line of her jaw and the corners of
her eyes lifted also and those honey-coloured lights burned in their
dark depths.  Then she was formidable as any man Lothar had ever met.

They stared at each other, assessing the changes that the years had
wrought since their last meeting.

How old is she?  Lothar wondered, and then immediately remembered.  She
was born an hour after midnight on the first day of the century.  She is
as old as the twentieth century

that's why she was named Centaine.  So she's thirty-one

years old, and she still looks nineteen, as young as the day

I found her, bleeding and dying in the desert with the

wounds of lion claws deep in her sweet young flesh.

He has aged, Centaine thought.  Those silver streaks in

the blond, those lines around the mouth and eyes.  He'll be over forty
now, and he has suffered -- but not enough.  I am glad I didn't kill
him, I'm glad my bullet missed his heart.  It would have been too quick.
Now he is in my power and he'll begin to learn the true-

Suddenly, against her will and inclination, she remembered

the feel of his golden body over hers, naked and

smooth and hard, and her loins clenched and then dissolved

so she could feel their hot soft flooding, as hot as the blood

that mounted to her cheeks and as hot as her anger against

herself and her inability to master that animal corner of her

motions.  In all other things she had trained herself like an

athlete, but always that unruly streak of sensuality was just

beyond her control.

She looked beyond the man in the doorway, and she saw ...  ...

Shasa standing out in the sunlight, her beautiful child,

watching her curiously, and she was ashamed and angry to

have been caught in that naked and unguarded moment

when she was certain that her basest feelings had been on

open display.

Close the door, she ordered, and her voice was husky

and level.  Come in and close the door.  She turned away and

stared out of the window, bringing herself under complete

control once More before turning back to face the man she

had set herself to destroy.

The door closed and Shasa suffered an acute pang of disappointment .  He
sensed that something vitally important was taking place. That blond
stranger with the cat-yellow eyes who knew his name and its derivation
stirred something in him, something dangerous and exciting. Then his
mother's reaction, that sudden high colour coming up her throat into her
checks and something in her eyes that he had never seen before, not
guilt, surely?  Then uncertainty, which was totally uncharacteristic.
She had never been uncertain of anything in the world that Shasa knew
of.  He wanted desperately to know what was taking place behind that
closed door.  The walls of the building were of corrugated galvanized
iron sheeting.

If you want to know something, go and find out.  it was one of his
mother's adages, and his only compunction was that she might catch him
at it as he crossed to the side wall of the office, stepping lightly so
that the gravel would not crunch under his feet, and laid his ear
against the sun-heated corrugated metal.

Though he strained, he could only hear the murmur of voices.  Even when
the blond stranger spoke sharply, he could not catch the words, while
his mother's voice was low and husky and inaudible.

The window, he thought, and moved quickly to the corner.  As he stepped
around it, intent on eavesdropping at the open window, he was suddenly
the subject of attention of fifty pairs of eyes.  The factory manager
and his idle workers were still clustered at the main doors, and they
fell silent and turned their full attention upon him as he appeared
round the corner.

Shasa tossed his head and veered away from the window.

They were all still watching him and he thrust his hands into the
pockets of his Oxford bags and, with an elaborate show of nonchalance,
sauntered down towards the long wooden jetty as though this had been his
intention all along.

Whatever was going on in the office now was beyond him, unless he could
wheedle it out of his mother later, and he didn't think there was much
hope of that.  Then suddenly he noticed the four squat wooden trawlers
moored alongside the jetty, each lying low in the water under the
glittering silver cargo they carried, and his disappointment was a
little mollified.  Here was something to break the monotony of his hot
dreary desert afternoon and his step quickened as he went onto the
timbers of the jetty.  Boats always fascinated him.

This was new and exciting.  He had never seen so many fish, there must
be tons of them.  He came level with the first boat.  It was grubby and
ugly, with streaks of human excrement down the sides where the crew had
squatted on the gunwale, and it stank of bilges and fuel oil and
unwashed humanity living in confined quarters.  It had not even been
graced with a name: there were only the registration and licence numbers
painted on the wave-battered bows.

A boat should have a name, Shasa thought.  It's insulting and unlucky
not to give it a name.  His own twenty-five-foot yacht that his mother
had given him for his thirteenth birthday was named The Midas Touch, a
name that his mother had suggested.

Shasa wrinkled his nose at the smell of the trawler, disgusted and
saddened by her disgracefully neglected condition.

If this is what Mater drove all the way from Windhoek for, He did not
finish the thought for a boy stepped around the far side of the tall
angular wheelhouse.

He wore patched shorts of canvas duck, his legs were brown and muscled
and he balanced easily on the hatch coarning on bare feet.

As they became aware of each other both boys bridled and stiffened, like
dogs meeting unexpectedly; silently they scrutinized each other.

A dandy, a fancy boy, Manfred thought.  He had seen one or two like him
on their infrequent visits to the resort town of Swakopmund up the
coast.  Rich men's children dressed in ridiculous stiff clothing,
walking dutifully behind their parents with that infuriating
supercilious expression upon their faces.  Look at his hair, all shiny
with brilliantine, and he stinks like a bunch of flowers.  One of the
poor white Afrikaners, Shasa recognized his type.  A bywoner, a
squatter's kid.  I His mother had forbidden him to play with them, but
he had found that some of them were jolly good fun.  Their attraction
was of course enhanced by his mother's prohibition.  One of the sons of
the machine-shop foreman at the mine imitated bird calls in such an
amazingly lifelike manner that he could actually call the birds down
from the trees, and he had shown Shasa how to adjust the carburettor and
ignition on the old Ford which his mother allowed him to use, even
though he was too young to have a driver's licence.  While the same
boy's elder sister, a year older than Shasa, had shown him something
even more remarkable when they had shared a few forbidden moments
together behind the pumphouse at the mine.  She had even allowed him to
touch it and it had been warm and soft and furry as a new-born kitten
cuddling up there under her short cotton skirt, a most remarkable
experience which he intended to repeat at the very next opportunity.

This boy looked interesting also, and perhaps he could show Shasa over
the trawler's engine-room.  Shasa glanced back at the factory. His
mother was not watching and he was prepared to be magnanimous.

Hello.  He made a lordly gesture and smiled carefully.  His grandfather,
Sir Garrick Courtney, the most important male person in his existence,
was always admonishing him.  By birth you have a specially exalted
position in society.  This gives you not only benefit and privilege, but
a duty also.  A true gentleman treats those beneath his station, black
or white, old or young, man or woman, with consideration and courtesy.
My name is Courtney, Shasa told him. 'Shasa Courtney.

My uncle is Sir Garrick Courtney and my mother is Mrs Centaine de Thiry
Courtney.  He waited for the deference that those names usually
commanded, and when it was not evident, he went on rather lamely.
'What's your name?  My name is Manfred, the other boy replied in
Afrikaans and arched those dense black eyebrows over the amber eyes.

They were so much darker than his streaked blond hair that they looked
as though they had been painted on.  Manfred De La Rey, and my
grandfather and my great-uncle and my father were De La Rey also and
they shot the shit out of the English every time they met them.  Shasa
blushed at this unexpected attack and was on the point of turning away
when he saw that there was an old man leaning in the window of the
wheelhouse, watching them, and two coloured crewmen had come up from the
trawler's forecastle.  He could not retreat.

We English won the war and in 1914 we beat the hell out of the rebels,
he snapped.

Well!  Manfred repeated, and turned to his audience.  This little
gentleman with perfume on his hair won the war.  The crewmen chuckled
encouragement.  Smell him, his name should be Lily, Lily the perfumed
soldier.  Manfred turned back to him, and for the first time Shasa
realized that he was taller by a good inch and his arms were alarmingly
thick and brown.  So you are English, are you, Lily?  Then you must live
in London, is that right, sweet Lily?  Shasa had not expected a poor
white boy to be so articulate, nor his wit to be so acerbic. Usually he
was in control of any discussion.

Of course I'm English, he affirmed furiously, and was seeking a final
retort to end the exchange and allow him to retire in good order from a
situation over which he was swiftly losing control.

Then you must live in London, Manfred persisted.

I live in Cape Town.  Hah!  Manfred turned to his growing audience.
Swart Hendrick had come across the jetty from his own trawler, and all
the crew were up from the forecastle.  That's why they are called
Soutpiel, Manfred announced.

There was an outburst of delighted guffaws at the coarse expression.
Manfred would never have used it if his father had been present.  The
translation was Salt Prick and Shasa flushed and instinctively bunched
his fists at the insult.

A Soutpiel has one foot in London and the other in Cape Town, Manfred
explained with relish, and his willy-wagger dangling in the middle of
the salty old Atlantic Ocean.  You'll take that back!  Anger had robbed
Shasa of a more telling rejoinder.  He had never been spoken to in this
fashion by one of his inferiors.

Take it back, you mean like you pull back your salty foreskin? When you
play with it?  Is that what you mean?  Manfred asked.  The applause had
made him reckless, and he had moved closer, directly under the boy on
the jetty.

Shasa launched himself without warning and Manfred had not anticipated
that so soon.  He had expected to trade a few more insults before they
were both sufficiently worked up to attack each other.

Shasa dropped six feet and hit him with the full weight of his body and
his outrage.  The wind was driven out of Manfred's lungs in a whoosh as,
locked together, they went flying backwards into the morass of dead
fish.

They rolled over and with a shock Shasa felt the other boy's strength.
His arms were hard as timber balks and his fingers felt like iron
butcher's hooks as he clawed for Shasa's face.  only surprise and
Manfred's winded lungs saved him from immediate humiliation, and almost
too late he remembered the admonitions of Jock Murphy, his boxing
instructor.

Don't let a bigger man force you to fight close.  Fight him off. Keep
him at arm's length.  Manfred was clawing at his face, trying to get an
arm around him in -a half Nelson, and they were floundering into the
cold slippery mass of fish.  Shasa brought up his right knee and, as
Manfred reared up over him, he drove it into his chest.  Manfred gasped
and reeled back, but then as Shasa tried to roll away, he lunged forward
again for the head lock.  Shasa ducked his head and with his right hand
forced Manfred's elbow up to break the grip, then as Jock had taught
him, he twisted out against the opening he had created.  He was helped
by the fish slime that coated his neck and Manfred's arm like oil, and
the instant he was free he threw a punch with his left hand.

Jock had drilled him endlessly on the short straight left.

The most important punch you'll ever use.  it wasn't one of Shasa's
best, but it caught the other boy in the eye with sufficient force to
snap his head back and distract him just long enough to let Shasa get
onto his feet and back away.

By now the jetty above them was crowded with coloured trawler-men in
rubber boots and blue rollneck jerseys.  They were roaring with delight
and excitement, egging on the two boys as though they were game cocks.

Blinking the tears out of his swelling eye, Manfred went after Shasa,
but the fish clinging to his legs hampered him, and that left shot out
again.  There was no warning; it came straight and hard and
unexpectedly, stinging his injured eye so that he shouted with anger and
groped wildly for the lighter boy.

Shasa ducked under his arm and fired the left again, just the way Jock
had taught him.

Never telegraph it by moving the shoulders or the head, he could almost
hear Jock's voice, just shoot it, with the arm alone.  He caught Manfred
in the mouth, and immediately there was blood as Manfred's lip was
crushed onto his own teeth.

The sight of his adversary's blood elated Shasa and the concerted bellow
of the crowd evoked a primeval response deep within him.  He used the
left again, cracking it into the pink swollen eye.

When you mark him, then keep hitting the same spot.  Jock's voice in his
head, and Manfred shouted again, but this time he could hear the pain as
well as the rage in the sound.

It's working, Shasa exulted.  But at that moment he ran backwards into
the wheelhouse and Manfred, realizing his opponent was cornered, rushed
at him through the slimy fish, spreading both arms wide, grinning
triumphantly, his mouth full of blood from his cut lip and his teeth
dyed bright pink.

In panic Shasa dropped his shoulders, braced himself for an instant
against the wheelhouse timbers and then shot forward, butting the top of
his head into Manfred's stomach.

Once again Manfred wheezed as the air was forced up his throat, and for
a few confused seconds they writhed together in the mess of pilchards,
with Manfred gurgling for breath A.  and unable to get a hold on his
opponent's slippery limbs.

Then Shasa wriggled away and half crawled, half swam to the foot of the
wooden ladder of the jetty and dragged himself onto it.

The crowd was laughing and booing derisively as he fled, and Manfred
clawed angrily after him, spitting blood and fish slime out of his
injured mouth, his chest heaving violently to refill his lungs.

Shasa was halfway up the ladder when Manfred reached up and grabbed his
ankle, pulling both his feet off the rungs.

Shasa was stretched out by the heavier boy's weight like a victim on the
rack, clinging with desperate strength to the top of the ladder, and the
faces of the coloured fishermen e were only inches from his as they
leaned over the jetty and howled for his blood, favouring their own.

With his free leg Shasa kicked backwards, and his heel caught Manfred in
his swollen eye.  He yelled and let go, and Shasa scrambled up onto the
jetty and looked around him wildly.  His fighting ardour had cooled and
he was trembling.

His escape down the jetty was open and he longed to take it.  But the
men around him were laughing and jeering and pride shackled him. He
glanced around and, with a surge of dismay that was so strong that it
almost physically nauseated him, he saw that Manfred had reached the top
of the ladder.

Shasa was not quite sure how he had got himself into this fight, or what
was the point at issue, and miserably he wished he could extricate
himself.  That was impossible, his entire breeding and training
precluded it.  He tried to stop himself trembling as he turned back to
face Manfred again.

The bigger boy was trembling also, but not with fear.  His face was
swollen and dark red with killing rage, and he was making an unconscious
hissing sound through his bloody lips.  His damaged eye was turning
purplish mauve and puffing into a narrow slit.

Kill him, kleinbasie!  screamed the coloured trawler-men.

murder him, little boss.  And their taunts rallied Shasa.  He took a
deep steadying breath and lifted his fists in the classic boxer's
stance, left foot leading and his hands held high in front of his face.

Keep moving, he heard Jock's advice again, and he went up on his toes
and danced.

Look at him!  the crowd hooted.  He thinks he is Jack Dempsey! He wants
to dance with you, Manie.  Show him the Walvis Bay Waltz However,
Manfred was daunted by the desperate determination in those dark blue
eyes and by the clenched white knuckles of Shasa's left hand.

He began to circle him, hissing threats.

I'm going to rip your arm off and stick it down your throat.

I'm going to make your teeth march out of your backside like soldiers.
Shasa blinked but kept his guard up, turning slowly to face Manfred as
he circled.  Though both of them were soaked and glistening with fish
slime and their hair was thick with the gelatinous stuff and speckled
with loose scales, there was nothing ludicrous nor childlike about them.
It was a good fight and promised to become even better, and the audience
gradually fell silent.  Their eyes glittered like those of a wolf pack
and they craned forward expectantly to watch the ill-matched pair.

Manfred feinted left and then charged and rushed from the side. He was
very fast, despite his size and the heaviness of his legs and shoulders.
He carried his shining blond head low and the black curved eyebrows
emphasized the ferocity of his scowl.

In front of him Shasa seemed almost girlishly fragile.  His arms were
slim and pale, and his legs under the sodden grey flannel seemed too
long and thin, but he moved well on them.  He dodged Manfred's charge
and as he pulled away, his left arm shot out again, and Manfred's teeth
clicked audibly at the punch and his head was flicked back as he was
brought up on his heels.

The crowd growled, Vat horn, Manie, get him!  and Manfred rushed in
again, throwing a powerful round-house punch at Shasa's pale
petal-smooth face.

Shasa ducked under it and, in the instant that Manfred was screwed off
balance by his own momentum, stabbed his left fist unexpectedly and
painfully into the purple, puffed-up eye.  Manfred clasped his hand over
the eye and snarled at him.  Fight properly, you cheating Soutie!

Ja!  a voice called from the crowd.  Stop running away.

Stand and fight like a man.  At the same time Manfred changed his
tactics.  instead of feinting and weaving, he came straight at Shasa.
and kept on coming, swinging with both hands in a terrifying mechanical
sequence of blows.  Shasa fell back frantically, ducking and swaying and
dodging, at first stabbing out with his left hand as Manfred followed
him relentlessly, cutting the swollen skin that had begun to bag under
his eye, hitting him in the mouth again and then again until his lips
were distorted and lumpy.  But it was as though Manfred was imuned to
the sting of these blows now and he did not alter the rhythm of punches
nor slacken his attack.

His brown fists, hardened by work at the winch and net, flipped Shasa's
hair as he ducked or hissed past his face as he ran backwards. Then one
caught him a glancing blow on the temple and Shasa stopped aiming his
own counter-punches and struggled merely to stay clear of those swinging
fists, for his legs started to turn numb and heavy under him.

Manfred was tireless, pressing him relentlessly, and despair combined
with exhaustion to slow Shasa's legs.  A fist crashed into his ribs, and
he grunted and staggered and saw the other fist coming at his face.  He
could not avoid it, his feet seemed planted in buckets of treacle and he
grabbed at Manfred's arm and hung on grimly.  That was exactly what
Manfred had been trying to force him to do, and he whipped his other arm
around Shasa's neck.

Now, I've got you, he mumbled through swollen bloody lips, as he forced
Shasa to double over, his head pinned under Manfred's left arm. Manfred
lifted his right hand high and swung it in a brutal uppercuts Shasa
sensed rather than saw the fist coming, and twisted so violently that he
felt as though his neck had snapped.  But he managed to take the blow on
the top of his forehead rather than in his unprotected face.  The shock
of it was driven like an iron spike from the top of his skull down his
spine.  He knew he could not take another blow like that.

Through his starring vision he realized that he had tottered to the edge
of the jetty, and he used the last vestiges of his strength to drive
them both towards the very edge.  Manfred had not been expecting him to
push in that direction and was braced the wrong way.  He could not
resist as they went flying over and fell back onto the trawler's
fish-laden deck six feet below.

Shasa was pinned beneath Manfred's body, still caught in the headlock,
and instantly he sank into the quicksand of silver pilchards.

Manfred tried to swing another punch at his face, but it slogged into
the soft layer of fish that was spreading over Shasa's head.  He
abandoned the effort and merely leaned his full weight on Shasa's neck,
forcing his head deeper and still deeper below the surface.

Shasa started to drown.  He tried to scream but a dead pilchard slid
into his open mouth and its head jammed in his throat.  He kicked and
lashed out with both hands and writhed with all his remaining strength,
but remorselessly his head was thrust downward.  The fish lodged in his
throat choked him.  The darkness filled his head with a sound like the
wind, blotting out the murderous chorus from the jetty above, and his
struggles became less urgent until he was flopping and flapping his
limbs loosely.

I'm going to die, he thought with a kind of detached wonder. 'I'm
drowning, and the thought faded with his consciousness.

You have come here to destroy me, Lothar De La Rey accused her with his
back against the closed door.  You have come all this way to watch it
happen, and to gloat on it!

You flatter yourself, Centaine answered him disdainfully.

I have not that much interest in you personally.  I have come to protect
my considerable investment.  I have come for fifty thousand pounds plus
accrued interest.  If that was true you wouldn't stop me running my
catch through the plant.  I've got a thousand tons out there - by sunset
tomorrow evening I could turn it into fifty thousand pounds. Impatiently
Centaine lifted her hand to stop him.  The skin of the hand was tanned a
creamy coffee colour in contrast to the silver white diamond as long as
the top joint of the tapered forefinger that she pointed at him.

You are living in a dream world, she told him.  Your fish is worth
nothing.  Nobody wants it, not at any price, certainly not fifty
thousand.  It's worth all of that, fish meal and canned goods Again she
gestured him to silence.  The warehouses of the world are filled with
unwanted goods.  Don't you understand that?  Don't you read a newspaper?
Don't you listen to the wireless out here in the desert? It's worthless,
not even worth the cost of processing it.  That's not possible.  He was
angry and stubborn.  Of course I've heard about the stock market, but
people have still got to eat.  I've thought many things about you, she
had not raised her voice, she was speaking as though to a child, but I
have never thought you stupid.  Try to understand that something has
happened out there in the world that has never happened before.  The
commerce of the world has died; the factories of the world are closing;
the streets of all the major cities are filled with the legions of the
unemployed.  You are using this as an excuse for what you are doing.

You are conducting a vendetta against me.  He came towards her. His lips
were icy pale against the dark mahogany tan.

You are hounding me for some fancied offence committed long ago. You are
punishing me.  The offence was real!  She stepped back from his advance,
but she held his gaze and her voice though low-pitched was bleak and
hard.  It was monstrous and cruel and unforgivable, but there is no
punishment I could deal out to you which would fit that crime. If there
is a God, he will demand retribution.  The child, he started.

The child you bore me in the wilderness, For the first time he
penetrated the armour of her composure.

You'll not mention your bastard to me.  She clasped one hand with the
other to prevent them trembling.  That was our-bargain.  He's our son.
You cannot avoid that fact.  Are you content to destroy him also?  He's
your son, she denied.  I have no part of him.  He does not affect me or
my decision.  Your factory is insolvent, hopelessly, irredeemably
insolvent.  I cannot expect to recover my investment, I can only hope to
retrieve a part.  Through the open window there came the sound of men's
voices, even at a distance they sounded excited and lustful, baying like
hounds as they take the scent.  Neither of them glanced in that
direction; all their attention was concentrated on each other.

Give me a chance, Centaine.  He heard the pleading timbre in his own
voice and it disgusted him.  He had never begged before, not with
anybody, not once in his life, but now he could not bear the prospect of
having to begin all over again.  It would not be the first time. Twice
before he had been rendered destitute, stripped of everything but pride
and courage and determination by war and the fortunes of war. Always it
had been the same enemy, the British and their aspirations of empire.
Each time he had started again from the beginning and laboriously
rebuilt his fortune.

This time the prospect appalled him.  To be struck down by the mother of
his child, the woman he had loved, and, God forgive him, the woman he
loved still against all probabilities.  He felt the exhaustion of his
spirit and his body.

He was forty-six years old; he no longer had a young man's store of
energy on which to draw, and he thought he glimpsed a softening in her
eyes as though she was moved by his plea, wavering at the point of
relenting.

Give me a week, just one week, Centaine, that's all I ask, he abased
himself, and immediately realized that he had misread her.

She did not alter her expression, but in her eyes he could see that what
he had mistaken for compassion was instead the shine of deep
satisfaction.  He was where she had wanted him all these years.

I have told you never to use my Christian name, she said.  I told you
that when I first learned that you had murdered two people whom I loved
as dearly as I have ever loved anyone.  I tell you that again.  A week.
just one week.  I have already given you two years. Now she turned her
head towards the window, no longer able to ignore the sound of harsh
voices, like the blood roar of a bullfight heard at a distance.

Another week will only get you deeper into my debt and force heavier
loss on me.  She shook her head, but he was staring out the window and
now her voice sharpened.  What is happening down there on the jetty? She
leaned her hands on the sill and peered down the beach.

He stepped up beside her.  There was a dense knot of humanity halfway
down the jetty, and from the factory all the idle packers were running
down to join it.

Shasa!  Centaine cried with an intuitive surge of maternal concern.
Where's Shasa?  Lothar vaulted lightly over the sill and raced for the
jetty, overhauling the stragglers and then shouldering his way through
the circle of yelling, howling trawler-men just as the two boys teetered
on the edge of the jetty.

Manfred!  he roared.  Stop that!  Let him go!  His son had the lighter
boy in a vicious headlock, and he was swinging overhand punches at his
trapped head.  Lothar heard one crack against the bone of Shasa's skull.

You fool!  Lothar started towards them.  They had not heard his voice
above the din of the crowd, and Lothar felt a slide of dread, a real
concern for the child and a realization of what Centaine's reaction
would be if he were injured.

Leave him!  Before he could reach the wildly struggling pair, they
reeled backwards and tumbled over the edge of the jetty.  Oh my God!  He
heard them hit the deck of the trawler below, and by the time he reached
the side and looked down they were half buried in the deck-load of
glittering pilchards.

Lothar tried to reach the ladder head, impeded by the press of coloured
trawler-men who crowded forward to the edge so as not to miss a moment
of the contest.  He struck out with both fists, clearing his way,
shoving his men aside, and then clambered down to the deck of the
trawler.

Manfred was lying on top of the other boy, forcing his head and
shoulders beneath the mass of pilchards.  His own face was contorted
with rage, and lumped and discoloured with bruises.  He was mouthing
incoherent threats through blood-smeared and puffed lips, and Shasa was
no longer struggling.  His head and shoulders had disappeared but his
trunk and his legs twitched and shuddered in the spontaneous nerveless
movements of a man shot through the head.

Lothar seized his son by the shoulders and tried to drag him off. It was
like trying to separate a pair of mastiffs and he had to use all his
strength.  He lifted Manfred bodily and threw him against the wheelhouse
with a force that knocked the belligerence out of him and then grabbed
Shasa's legs and pulled him out of the engulfing quicksilver of dead
pilchards.  He came slithering free, wet and slippery.

His eyes were open and rolled back into his skull exposing the whites.

You've killed him, Lothar snarled at his son, and the furious tide of
blood receded from Manfred's face leaving him white and shivering., with
shock.

I didn't mean it, Pa!  didn't, I There was a dead fish jammed into
Shasa's slack mouth, choking him, and fish slime bubbled out of his
nostrils.

You fool, you little fool!  Lothar thrust his finger into the corners of
the child's slack mouth and prised the pilchard out.

I'm sorry, Pa.  I didn't mean it, Manfred whispered.

if you've killed him, you've committed a terrible offence in the sight
of God.  Lothar lifted Shasa's limp body in his arms.  You'll have
killed your own, He did not say the fateful word, but bit down hard on
it and turned to the ladder.

I haven't killed him?  Manfred pleaded for assurance.  He's not dead. it
will be all right, won't it, Pa?  No.  Lothar shook his head grimly.  It
won't be all right, not ever.  Carrying the unconscious boy, he climbed
up onto the jetty.

The crowd opened silently for Lothar.  Like Manfred, they were appalled
and guilty, unable to meet his eyes as he shouldered past them.

Swart Hendrick, Lothar called over their heads to the tall black man.
You should have known better.  You should have stopped them. Lothar
strode away up the jetty, and none of them followed him.

Halfway up the beach path to the factory Centaine Courtney waited for
him.  Lothar stopped in front of her with the boy hanging limply in his
arms.

He's dead, Centaine whispered hopelessly.

No, Lothar denied with passion.  It was too horrible to think about, and
as though in response Shasa moaned and vomited from the corner of his
mouth.

Quickly.  Centaine stepped forward.  Turn him over your shoulder before
he chokes on his own vomit.  with Shasa hanging limply over his shoulder
like a haversack, Lothar ran the last few yards to the office and
Centaine swept the desktop clear.

Lay him here, she ordered, but Shasa was struggling weakly and trying to
sit up.  Centaine supported his shoulders and wiped his mouth and
nostrils with the fine cloth of her sleeve.

It was your bastard.  She glared across the desk at Lothar.

He did this to my son, didn't he?  And she saw the confirmation in his
face before he looked away.

Shasa coughed and brought up another trickle of fish slime and yellow
vomitus, and immediately he was stronger.  His eyes focused and his
breathing eased.

Get out of here.  Centaine leaned protectively over Shasa's body.

I'll see you both in hell, you and your bastard.  Now get out of my
sight.  The track from Walvis Bay ran through the convoluted valleys of
the great orange dunes, thirty kilometres to the railhead at Swakopmund.
The dunes towered three and four hundred feet on either side.  Mountains
of sand with knife-edge crests and smooth slip faces, they trapped the
desert heat in the canyons between them.

The track was merely a set of deep ruts in the sand, marked on each side
by the sparkling glass of broken beer bottles.  No traveller took this
thirsty road without adequate supplies for the journey.  At intervals
the tracks had been obliterated by the efforts of other drivers,
unskilled in the art of desert travel, to extract their vehicles from
the clinging sands, leaving gaping traps for those who followed.

Centaine drove hard and fast, never allowing her engine revolutions to
drop, keeping her momentum even through the churned-up areas and holes
where the other vehicles had bogged down, directing the big yellow car
with deft little touches of the wheel so that the tyres ran straight and
the sand did not pile and block them.

She held the wheel in a racing driver's grip, leaning back against the
leather seat with straight arms ready for the kick of the wheel,
watching the tracks far ahead and anticipating each contingency long
before she reached it, sometimes snapping down through the gears and
swinging out of the ruts to cut her own way around a bad stretch.  She
scorned even the elementary precaution of travelling with a pair of
black servants in the back seat to push the Daimler out of a sand trap.

Shasa had never known his mother to bog down, not even on the worst
sections of the track out to the mine.

He sat up beside her on the front seat.  He wore a suit of old but
freshly laundered canvas overalls from the stores of the canning
factory.  His soiled clothing stinking of fish and speckled with vomit
was in the boot of the Daimler.

His mother hadn't spoken since they had driven away

from the factory.  Shasa glanced surreptitiously at her, dreading her
pent-up wrath, not wanting to draw attention to himself, yet despite
himself unable to keep his eyes from her face.

She had removed the cloche hat and her thick dark cap of hair, cut
fashionably into a short Eton crop, rippled in the wind and shone like
washed anthracite.

,Who started it?  she asked, without taking her eyes from the road.

Shasa thought about it.  I'm not sure.  I hit him first, but he paused.
His throat was still painful.

Yes?  she demanded.

It was as though it was arranged.  We looked at each other and we knew
we were going to fight.  She said nothing and he finished lamely. 'He
called me a name.  What name?  I can't tell you.  It's rude.  "I asked
what name?  Her voice was level and low, but he recognized that husky
warning quality.

He called me a Soutpiel, he replied hastily.  He dropped his voice and
looked away in shame at the dreadful insult, so he did not see Centaine
struggle to stifle the smile and turn her head slightly to hide the
sparkle of amusement in her eyes.

I told you it was rude, he apologized.

So you hit him, and he's younger than you.  He had not known that he was
the elder, but he was not surprised that she knew it.  She knew
everything.

He may be younger, but he's a big Afrikaner ox, at least two inches
taller than I am, he defended himself quickly.

She wanted to ask Shasa what her other son looked like.

Was he blond and handsome as his father had been?  What colour were his
eyes?  Instead she said, And so he thrashed you.  I nearly won.  Shasa
protested stoutly.  I closed his eyes and I bloodied him nicely.  I
nearly won.  Nearly isn't good enough, she said.  In our family we don't
nearly win, we simply win!

He fidgeted uncomfortably and coughed to relieve the pain in his injured
throat.

You can't win, not when someone is bigger and stronger than you, he
whispered miserably.

Then you don't fight him with your fists, she told him.

You don't rush in and let him stick a dead fish down your throat.  He
blushed painfully at the humiliation.  You wait your chance, and you
fight him with your own weapons and on your own terms. You only fight
when you are sure you can win.  He considered that carefully, examining
it from every angle.  That's what you did to his father, didn't you?  he
asked softly, and she was startled by his perception so that she stared
at him and the Daimler bumped out of the ruts.

Quickly she caught and controlled the machine, and then she nodded. Yes.
That's what I did.  You see, we are Courtneys.  We don't have to fight
with our fists.  We fight with power and money and influence.  Nobody
can beat us on our own ground.  He was silent again, digesting it
carefully, and at last he smiled.  He was so beautiful when he smiled,
even more beautiful than his father had been, that she felt her heart
squeezed by her love.

I'll remember that, he said.  Next time I meet him, I'll remember what
you said.  Neither of them doubted for a moment that the two boys would
meet again, and that when they did, they would continue the conflict
that had begun that day.

The breeze was onshore and the stink of rotting fish was so strong that
it coated the back of Lothar De La Rey's throat and sickened him to the
gut.

The four trawlers still lay at their berths but their cargoes were no
longer glittering silver.  The fish had packed down and the top layer of
pilchards had dried out in the sun and turned a dark, dirty grey,
crawling with metallic green flies as big as wasps.  The fish in the
holds had squashed under their own weight, and the bilge pumps were
pouring out steady streams of stinking brown blood and fish oil that
discoloured the waters of the bay in a spreading cloud.

All day Lothar had sat at the window of the factory office while his
coloured trawler-men and packers lined up to be paid.  Lothar had sold
his old Packard truck and the few sticks of furniture from the
corrugated shack in which he and Manfred lived.  These were the only
assets that did not belong to the company and had not been attached. The
second-hand dealer had come across from Swakopmund within hours,
smelling disaster the way the vultures do, and he had paid Lothar a
fraction of their real value.

There is a depression going on, Mr De La Rey, everybody is selling,
nobody is buying.  I'll lose money, believe me.  With the cash that
Lothar had buried under the sandy floor of the shack there was enough to
pay his people two shillings on each pound that he owed them for back
wages.

He did not have to pay them, of course, it was the company's
responsibility, but that did not occur to him, they were his people.

I'm sorry, he repeated to each one of them as they came to the pay
window.  That's all there is.  And he avoided their eyes.

When it was all gone, and the last of his coloured people had wandered
away in disconsolate little groups, Lothar locked the office door and
handed the key to the deputy sheriff .

Then he and the boy had gone down to the jetty for the last time and sat
together with their legs dangling over the end.  The stink of dead fish
was as heavy as their mood.

I don't understand, Pa.  Manfred spoke through his distorted mouth with
the crusty red scab on the upper lip.  We caught good fish.

We should be rich.  What happened, Pa?  We were cheated, Lothar said
quietly.  Until that moment there had been anger, no bitterness, just a
feeling of numbness.  Twice before he had been struck by a bullet. The
.303

Lee Enfield bullet on the road to Ornaruru when they were opposing Smuts
invasion of German South West Africa, and then much later the Luger
bullet fired by the boy's mother.

He touched his chest at the memory, and felt the rubbery puckered pit of
the scar through the thin cotton of his khaki shirt.

It was the same thing, first the shock and the numbness and then only
much later the pain and the anger.  Now the anger came at him in black
waves, and he did not try to resist.  Rather he revelled in it; it
helped to assuage the memory of abasing himself, pleading for time from
the woman with the taunting smile in her dark eyes.

Can't we stop them, Pa?  the boy asked, and neither of them had to
define that them'.  They knew their enemy.

They had grown to know them in three wars; in 1881 the first Boer War,
then again in the Great Boer War of 1899

when Victoria called her khaki multitudes from across the oceans to
crush them, and then in 1914 when the British puppet Jannie Smuts had
carried out the orders of his imperial masters.

Lothar shook his head, unable to answer, choked by the strength of his
anger.

There must be a way, the boy insisted.  We are strong.  He recalled the
feeling of Shasa's body slowly weakening in his grip and he flexed his
hands involuntarily.  It's ours, Pa.

This is our land.  God gave it to us, it says so in the Bible. Like so
many before him, the Afrikaner had interpreted that book in his own way.
He saw his people as the children of Israel, and Southern Africa as the
promised land flowing with milk and honey.

Lothar was silent and Manfred took his sleeve.  God did give it to us,
didn't he, Pa?  Yes.  Lothar nodded heavily.

Then they've stolen it from us: the land, the diamonds, and the gold and
everything, and now they have taken our boats and our fish. There must
be a way to stop them, to win back what belongs to us. 'It's not as easy
as that.  Lothar hesitated how to explain it to the child.  Did he truly
understand it himself, how it had happened?  They were squatters in the
land that their fathers had wrested from the savages and the wilderness
at the point of their long muzzle-loading guns.

When you grow up you'll understand, Manie, he said.

When I grow up I'll find a way to beat them.  Manfred said it so
forcefully that the scab on his lip cracked open and a droplet like a
tiny ruby glowed upon it.  I'll find a way to get it back from them.
You'll see if I don't, Pa.  Well, my son, perhaps you will.  Lothar
placed his arm around the boy's shoulders.

Remember Grandpa's oath, Pa?  I'll always remember.  The war against the
English will never end.  They sat together until the sun touched the
waters of the bay and turned them to molten copper, and then in the
darkness they went up the jetty, out of the stench of decaying fish and
along the edge of the dunes.

As they approached the shack there was smoke rising from the chimney and
when they entered the lean-to kitchen, there was a fire on the open
hearth.  Swart Hendrick looked up from it.

The Jew has taken the table and the chairs, he said.  But I hid the pots
and the mugs.  They sat on the floor and ate straight from the pot, a
porridge of maize meal flavoured with salty wind-dried fish.

Nobody spoke until they had finished.

You didn't have to stay.  Lothar broke the silence and Hendrick
shrugged.

,I bought coffee and tobacco at the store.  The money you paid me was
just enough.  There is no more, Lothar said.  It is all gone. 'It's all
been gone before.  Hendrick lit his pipe with a twig from the fire.  We
have been broke many times before.  This time it is different, Lothar
said.  This time there is no ivory to hunt or, He broke off as his anger
choked him again, and Hendrick poured more coffee into the tin mugs.

It is strange, Hendrick said.  When we found her, she was dressed in
skins.  Now she comes in her big yellow car, he shook his head and
chuckled, and we are the ones in rags.  It was you and I that saved her,
Lothar agreed.  More than that, we found her diamonds for her, and dug
them from the ground.  Now she is rich, Hendrick said, and she comes to
take what we have also.  She shouldn't have done that.  He shook his
great black head.  No, she shouldn't have done that.  Lothar
straightened up slowly.  Hendrick saw his expression and leaned forward
eagerly, and the boy stirred and smiled for the first time.

Yes.  Hendrick began to grin.  What is it?  Ivory is finished it's all
been hunted out long ago.  No, not ivory.  This time it will be
diamonds, Lothar replied.

Diamonds?  Hendrick rocked back on his heels.  What diamonds? 'What
diamonds?  Lothar smiled at him, and his yellow eyes glowed. 'Why, the
diamonds we found for her, of course!

Her diamonds?  Hendrick stared at him.  The diamonds from the h'ani
Mine?  How much money have you got?  Lothar demanded and Hendrick's eyes
shifted.  I know you well, Lothar went on impatiently and seized his
shoulder.  You've always got a little bit salted away. How much?  Not
much.  Hendrick tried to rise but Lothar held him down.

You have earned well this last season.  I know exactly how much I have
paid you., Fifty pounds,grunted Hendrick.

No.  Lothar shook his head.  You've got more than that. 'Perhaps a
little more.  Hendrick resigned himself.

You have got a hundred pounds, Lothar said definitely.

That's how much we will need.  Give it to me.  You know you will get it
back many times over.  You always have, and you always will., The track
was steep and rocky and the party straggled up it in the early sunlight.
They had left the yellow Daimler at the bottom of the mountain on the
banks of the Liesbeek stream and begun the climb in the ghostly grey
light of predawn.

In the lead were two old men in disreputable clothing, scuffed velskoen
on their feet and sweatstained shapeless straw hats on their heads. They
were both so lean as to appear half starved, skinny but sprightly, their
skin darkened and creased by long exposure to the elements, so that a
casual observer might have thought them a couple of old hoboes, and
there were enough of that type on the roads and byways in these days of
the great Depression.

The casual observer would have been in error.  The taller of the two old
men limped slightly on an artificial leg and was a Knight Commander of
the Order of the British Empire, a holder of the highest award for
valour that the Empire could offer, the Victoria Cross, and he was also
one of the most eminent military historians of the age, a man so rich
and careless of worldly wealth that he seldom bothered to count his
fortune.

Old Garry, his companion addressed him, rather than as Sir Garrick
Courtney.  That is the biggest problem we have to deal with, old Garry.
He was explaining in his high, almost girlish voice, rolling his R's in
that extraordinary fashion that was known as the 'Malmesbury bray'.  Our
people are deserting the land and flocking to the cities.  The farms are
dying, and there is no work for them in the cities.  His voice was
un-winded although they had climbed 2,000 feet up the sheer turreted
side of Table Mountain without a pause, maintaining the pace that had
outdistanced all the younger members of the party.

It's a recipe for disaster, Sir Garrick agreed.  They are poor on the
farms, but when they leave them they starve in the cities. Starving men
are dangerous men, Ou Baas.  History teaches us that.  The man he called
old master was smaller in stature, though he carried himself straighter.
He had merry blue eyes under the drooping brim of his Panama hat and a
grey goatee beard that waggled as he spoke. Unlike Garry, he was not
rich; he owned only a small farm on the high frost-browned veld of the
Transvaal, and he was as careless of his debts as Garry was of his
fortune, but the world was his paddock and had heaped honours upon him.
He had been awarded honorary doctorates by fifteen of the world's
leading universities, Oxford and Cambridge and Columbia amongst them.

He was the freeman of ten cities, London and Edinburgh and the rest.  He
had been a general in the Boer forces and now he was general in the army
of the British Empire, a Privy Councillor, a Companion of Honour, a
King's Counsel, a bencher of the Middle Temple and a Fellow of the Royal
Society.  His chest was not wide enough for all the stars and ribbons he
was entitled to wear.  He was without question the cleverest, wisest,
most charismatic and influential man that South Africa had ever
produced.  It was almost as though his spirit was too big to be
contained by terrestrial borders, as though he were a true citizen of
the wide world.  This was the one chink in his armour, and his enemies
had sent their poison-tipped arrows through it.  His heart is across the
sea, not with you, and it had brought down his government of the South
African Party of which he had been prime minister, minister of defence
and of native affairs.  Now he was leader of the opposition.  However,
he was a man who thought of himself as a botanist by preference and a
soldier and politician by necessity.

We should wait for the others to catch up.  General Jan Smuts paused on
a lichen-covered rocky platform and leaned on his staff.  The two of
them peered back down the slope.

A hundred paces below them a woman plodded grimly up the path; the
outline of her thighs through her heavy calico skirts were thick and
powerful as the haunches of a brood mare, and her bare arms were as
muscled as those of a wrestler.

My little dove, Sir Garry murmured fondly as he watched his bride. After
fourteen long years of courtship she had only acceded to his suit six
months before.

Do hurry, Anna, the boy behind her on the narrow path entreated. 'It
will be noon before we reach the top and I'm dying for breakfast. Shasa
was as tall as she was, though half her bulk.

Go ahead if you are in such a big hurry, she growled at him.  The thick
solar topee was pulled low over her red, round face.  Her features were
as folded as those of a friendly bulldog.  Though why anybody should
want to reach the top of this cursed mountain- I'll give you a shove,
Shasa offered, and placed both hands on Lady Courtney's massive round
buttocks.  Heave ho!  And up she rises! 'Stop that, you wicked boy, Anna
gasped as she scrambled to adjust to her sudden rapid ascent, or I'll
break this stick over your backside. Oh!  Stop now.  That's enough.
Until she had become Lady Courtney, she had been plain Anna, Shasa's
nurse and his mother's beloved maid.  Her meteoric rise up the social
ladder had in no way altered their relationship.

They arrived gasping and protesting and laughing on the ledge. 'Here she
is, Grandpater!  Special delivery!  Shasa grinned at Garry Courtney, who
separated them firmly and fondly.  The beautiful boy and the homely
red-faced woman were the most precious of all his treasures, his wife
and his only grandson.

Anna, my sweeting, you mustn't tax the boy's strength so, he warned her
with a straight face, and she struck him on the arm half playfully and
half in exasperation.

I should be seeing to the lunch rather than gallivanting around on this
mountain.  Her accent was still thick Flemish, and she relapsed
thankfully into Afrikaans as she turned to General Smuts.  How much
further is it, Ou Baas?  Not far, Lady Courtney, not far at all.  Ah!
Here are the others.  I was beginning to worry about them.  Centaine and
her companions emerged from the edge of the forest further down the
slope.  She wore a loose white skirt that left her legs bare from the
knees and a white straw hat decorated with artificial cherries.  When
they caught up with the leaders, Centaine smiled at General Smuts. 'I'm
winded, Ou Baas.  May I lean on you for the last lap?  And though she
was barely glowing with exertion he gallantly offered her his arm and
they were first to reach the crest.

These annual picnics on Table Mountain were the traditional family way
of celebrating Sir Garrick Courtney's birthday, and his old friend
General Smuts made a point of never missing the occasion.

On the crest they all spread out to sit in the grass and catch their
breath.  Centaine and the old general were a little apart from the
others.  Below them lay the whole sweep of the Constantia Valley,
patchworked with vineyards in full green summer livery.  Scattered
amongst them the Dutch gables of the great chateaux glowed like pearls
in the low rays of the sun and the smoky mountains of the Muizenberg and
Kabonkelberg formed a solid amphitheatre of grey rock, hemming in the
valley to the south while in the north the far mountains of the
Hottentots Holland were a rampart that cut off the Cape of Good Hope
from the continental shield of the African Continent.  Directly ahead,
wedged between the mountains, the waters of False Bay were ruffling and
flecking at the rising importunity of the southeaster.  It was so
beautiful that they were silenced for many minutes.

General Smuts spoke first.  So, Centaine, my dear, what did you want to
talk about?  You are a mind-reader, Ou Baas.  She laughed ruefully.

How do you know these things?  These days, when a pretty girl takes me
aside, I can be sure it's business and not pleasure.  He twinkled at
her.

You are one of the most attractive men I've ever met Ah ha! Such a
compliment!  It must be serious.  Her change of expression confirmed it.
It's Shasa, she said simply.

No problem there, or I miss my guess., She took a single-paged document
from her skirt pocket and handed it to him.  It was a school report. The
embossed crest was a bishop's mitre, the emblem of the country's most
exclusive public school.

The general glanced at it.  She knew how swiftly he could read even a
complicated legal document, so when he handed it back to her almost
immediately she was not put out.  He would have it all, even down to the
headmaster's summation on the last line: Michel Shasa is a credit to
himself and to Bishops.  General Smuts smiled at her.  You must be very
proud of him.  He is my entire life.  I know, he said, 'and that is not
always wise.  A child soon becomes a man, and when he leaves he will
take your life with him.  However, in what way can I help you, my dear?
He is bright and personable and he has a way with people, even those
much older than himself, she replied.  I would like to have a seat for
him in Parliament, to begin with.  The general removed the Panama hat
from his head and smoothed back his sparkling silver hair with the palm
of his hand.  I do think he should finish his schooling before he enters
Parliament, don't you, my dear!  he chuckled.

That's it.  That is exactly what I want to know from you, Ou Baas.
Should Shasa go home to Oxford or Cambridge, or will that count against
him later when he goes to the electorate?  Should he rather attend one
of the local universities and if so, should it be Stellenbosch or the
University of Cape Town?  I will think about it, Centaine, and I will
give you my advice when it is time to make the final decision.  But in
the meantime may I be bold enough to warn you of something else, a state
of mind which could prejudice your plans for the young man.  Please, Ou
Baas, she begged.  A word of yours is worth!  she did not have to find a
comparison, for the general went on softly.

That word "home", it is a fatal one.  Shasa must decide where his true
home is, and if it is across the sea, then he must not count on my
assistance.  How foolish of me.  He saw that she was truly angry with
herself.  Her cheeks darkened and her lips hardened.  Soutpiel.

She remembered that jeer.  One foot in London, the other in Cape Town.
It was no longer amusing.

It won't happen again, she said, and she laid her hand on his arm to
impress him with her sincerity.  So you will help him?  Can we have
breakfast now, Mater?  Shasa called across.

All right, put the basket on the bank of the stream over there. She
turned back to the old man.  Can I count on you?  I am in opposition,
Centaine You won't be for long.  The country must come to its senses at
the next election.  You must realize I cannot promise you anything now.
He was choosing his words carefully.  He is still a child.  However, I
will be watching him.  If he fulfils this early promise, if he meets my
standards, then he will have all my support.

God knows how we need good men.  She sighed with pleasure and relief,
and he went on more easily.  Sean Courtney was an able minister in my
government.  Centaine started at the name.  It brought back so many
memories, so much intense pleasure, and deep sorrow, so many dark and
secret things.  But the old man appeared not to have noticed her
consternation as he went on.  He was also a dear and trusted friend.  I
would like to have another Courtney in my government, someone to trust,
a good friend, perhaps one day another Courtney in my cabinet.  He stood
and helped her to her feet.  I'm as hungry as Shasa, and the smell of
food is too good to resist.  Yet when the food was offered, the general
ate most frugally, while the rest of them, led by Shasa, attacked the
food with ravenous appetites sharpened by the climb.  Sir Garry carved
from the cold cuts of lamb and pork and the turkey, and Anna dished out
slices of the pies, Melton Mowbray, ham and egg, minced fruit and cubes
of pigs trotter embedded in delicious clear gelatine.

One thing is certain, Cyril Slaine, one of Centaine's general

managers, declared with relief.  The basket will be a sight lighter on
the way down.  And now, the general roused them from where they
sprawled, satiated, on the bank of the tiny burbling stream, land now
for the main business of the day.  Come on everybody.  Centaine was the
first on her feet in a swirl of skirts, gay as a girl.  Cyril, leave the
basket here.  We'll pick it up on the way back.  They skirted the very
edge of the grey cliff, with the world spread below them, until the
general suddenly darted off to the left and scrambled over rock and
through flowering heather and protea bush, disturbing the sugar birds
that were sipping from the blooms.  They rose in the air, flirting their
long tail feathers and flashing their bright yellow belly patches with
indignation at the intrusion.

Only Shasa could keep up with the general, and when the rest of the
party caught the pair of them again, they were standing on the lip of a
narrow rocky glen with bright green swamp grass carpeting the bottom.

Here we are, and the first one to find a disa wins a sixpence, General
Smuts offered.

Shasa dashed away down the steep side of the glen, and before they were
halfway down he was yelling excitedly.

I've found one!  The sixpence is mine!  They straggled down from the
rough rim and at the edge of the swampy ground formed a hushed and
attentive circle around the graceful lily-stemmed orchid.

The general went down on one knee before it like a worshipper. 'It is
indeed a blue disa, one of the rarest flowers on our earth.  The
blossoms that adorned the stern were a marvelous cerulean blue, shaped
like dragon's heads, their gaping throats lined with imperial purple and
butter yellow.

They only grow here on Table Mountain, nowhere else in the world.  He
looked up at Shasa.  Would you like to do the honours for your
grandfather this year, young man?  Shasa stepped forward importantly to
pick the wild orchid and hand it to Sir Garry.  This little ceremony of
the blue disa was part of the traditional birthday ceremony and they all
laughed and applauded the presentation.

Watching her son proudly, Centaine's mind went back to the day of his
birth, to the day the old Bushman had named him Shasa, Good Water', and
had danced for him in the sacred valley deep in the Kalahari.  She
remembered the birth song that the old man had composed and sung, the
Bushman language clicking and rustling in her head again, so well
remembered, so well loved: His arrows will fly to the stars And when men
speak his name

It will be heard as far

the old Bushman had sung,

And he will find good water, Wherever he travels, he will find good
water.

She saw again in her mind, the old long-dead Bushman's face, impossibly
wrinkled and yet glowing that marvelous apricot colour, like amber or
mellowed meerschaum, and she whispered deep in her throat, using the
Bushman tongue.

Let it be so, old grandfather.  Let it be so.

On the return journey the Daimler was only just large enough to
accommodate all of them, with Anna sitting on Sir Garry's lap and
submerging him beneath her abundance.

As Centaine drove down the twisting road through the forest of tall blue
gum trees, Shasa leaned over the seat from behind her and encouraged her
to greater speed.  Come on, Mater, you've still got the hand brake on!
Sitting beside Centaine, the general clutched his hat and stared fixedly
at the speedometer.  That can't be right.  It feels more like one
hundred miles an hour.  Centaine swung the Daimler between the
elaborately gabled white main gates of the estate.  The pediment above,
depicting a party of dancing nymphs bearing bunches of

famous sculptor Anton Anreith. The name of the estate was blazoned in
raised letters above the sculpture:

WELTEVREDEN 1790

Well Satisfied was the translation from the Dutch, and Centaine had
purchased it from the illustrious Cloete family exactly one year after
she had pegged the claims to the H'ani Mine.  Since then she had
lavished money and care and love upon it.

She slowed the Daimler almost to walking pace.  I don't want dust
blowing over the grapes, she explained to General Smuts, and her face
reflected such deep content as she looked out on the neatly pruned rows
of trellised vines that he thought how the estate had been aptly named.

The coloured labourers straightened up from the vines and waved as they
passed.  Shasa leaned from the window and shouted the names of his
favourites and they grinned with huge gratification at being singled
out.

The road, lined with mature oaks, led up through two hundred acres of
vines to the chAteau.  The lawns around the great house were bright
green Kikuyu grass.  General Smuts had brought shoots of the grass back
from his East African campaign in 1917 and it had flourished all over
the country.

In the centre of the lawn stood the tall tower of the slave bell, still
used to toll the beginning and end of the day's labours.  Beyond it rose
the glacial white walls and massive Anreith gables of Weltevreden under
its thatched roof.

Already the house servants were hurrying out to fuss around them as they
spilled out of the big yellow machine.

Lunch will be at one-thirty, Centaine told them briskly.

Ou Baas, I know Sir Garry wants to read his latest chapter to you. Cyril
and I have a full morning's work ahead, she broke off, 'Shasa, where do
you think you are off to?  The boy had sidled to the end of the stoep
and was within an ace of escaping.  Now he turned back with a sigh. Jock
and I were going to work out the new pony.  The new polo pony had been
Cyril's Christmas present to Shasa.

Madame Claire will be waiting for you, Centaine pointed out.  We agreed
that your mathematics needed attention, didn't we?  Oh Mater, it's
holiday time Every day you spend idly, there is someone out there
working.  And when he meets you he is going to whip you hollow.  Yes,
Mater.  Shasa had heard that prediction many times before, and he looked
to his grandfather for support.

Oh, I'm sure your mother will allow you a few hours to yourself after
your maths tuition, he came in dutifully.  As you pointed out, it is
officially holiday time.  He looked hopefully at Centaine.

Might I also enter a plea on my young client's behalf?  General Smuts
backed him, and Centaine capitulated with a laugh.

You have such distinguished champions, but you will work with Madame
Claire until elevenses.  Shasa thrust his hands into his pockets and
with slumped shoulders went to find his tutor.  Anna disappeared into
the house to chivy the servants and Garry led General Smuts away to
discuss his new manuscript.

All right.  Centaine jerked her head at Cyril.  Let's get to work.  He
followed her through the double teak front doors down the long
voorkamer, her heels clicking on the black and white marble floors, to
her study at the far end.

Her male secretaries were waiting for her.  Centaine could not abide the
continual presence of other females.  Her secretaries were both handsome
young men.  The study was filled with flowers.  Every day the vases were
refilled from the gardens of Weltevreden.  Today it was blue hydrangeas
and yellow roses.

She seated herself at the long Louis XIV table she used as a desk.

The legs were in richly ornate ormolu and the top was expansive enough
to hold the memorabilia she had assembled.

There were a dozen photographs of Shasa's father in separate silver
frames covering his life from schoolboy to dashing young airman in the
RFC.  The last photograph depicted him with the other pilots of his
squadron standing in front of their single-seater scout planes. Hands
thrust into his pockets, cap on the back of his head, Michael Courtney
grinned at her, seemingly as certain of his immortality as he had been
on the day that he died in the pyre of his burning aircraft. As she
settled into her leather wingbacked chair, she touched the photograph,
rearranging it slightly.

The maid could never get it exactly right.

I've read through the contract, she told Cyril as he took the chair
facing her.  There are just two clauses I am not happy with. The first
is clause twenty-six.  He turned to it obediently, and with her
secretaries standing attentively on each side of her chair she began the
day's work.

Always it was the mine which occupied Centaine first.

The Hlani Mine was the source, the spring from which it all flowed, and
as she worked she felt her soul yearning towards the vastness of the
Kalahari, towards those mystic blue hills and the secret valley which
had concealed the treasures of the H'ani for countless aeons before she
had stumbled upon them, dressed in skins and a last tattered remnant of
cloth, great with the child in her womb and living like an animal of the
desert herself.

The desert had captured part of her soul, and she felt anticipation
rising in her.  Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow Shasa and I will be
going back.  The lush vineyards of the Constantia Valley and the chateau
of Weltevreden filled with beautiful things were part of her also, but
when they cloyed she had to go back to the desert and have her soul
burned clean and bright once more by the white Kalahari sun.  As she
signed the last of the documents and handed them to her senior secretary
for witnessing and sealing, she stood and crossed to the open french
doors.

Down in the paddock beyond the old slave quarters Shasa, released from
his mathematics, was schooling his pony under Jock Murphy's critical
eye.

It was a big horse; the limitation on size had recently been dropped by
the International Polo Association, but he moved well. Shasa turned him
neatly at the end of the paddock and brought him back at a full gallop.
Jock tossed a ball to his near-side and Shasa leaned out to take it on
his backhand.

He had a firm seat and a strong arm for one so young.  He swung in a
good full arc and the crisp click of the bamboo-root ball carried to
where Centaine stood and she saw the white flash of its trajectory in
the sunlight.

Shasa reined the pony down and swung him back.  As he passed again Jock
Murphy tossed another ball to his offside forehand.  Shasa topped the
shot and it bounced away sloppily.

Shame on you, Master Shasa, Jock called.  You are chopping again.  Let
the head of your stick take your shot through.  Jock Murphy was one of
Centaine's finds.  He was a stocky, muscular man with a short neck and
perfectly bald head.

He had done everything: Royal Marines, professional boxer, opium runner,
master at arms to an Indian maharajah, racehorse trainer, bouncer in a
Mayfair gambling club and now he was Shasa's physical instructor.  He
was a champion shot with rifle, shotgun and pistol, a ten-goal polo
player, deadly on the snooker table.  He had killed a man in the ring,
ridden in the Grand National, and he treated Shasa like his own son.

Once in every three months or so he went on the whisky and turned into a
devil incarnate.  Then Centaine would send someone down to the police
station to pay the damages and bail Jock out.  He would stand in front
of her desk, his Derby hat held in front of his chest, shaky and hung
over, his bald head shiny with shame, and apologize humbly.

It won't happen again, missus.  I don't know what came over me. Give me
another chance, missus, I won't let you down.  It was useful to know a
man's weakness: a leash to hold him and a lever to move him.

There was no work for them in Windhoek.  When they arrived, having
walked and begged lifts on trucks and wagons all the way from the coast,
they moved into the hobo encampment near the railway tracks on the
outskirts of the town.

By tacit agreement the hundred or so down-and-outers and drifters and
out-of-workers were allowed to camp here with their families, but the
local police kept a wary eye on them.

The huts were of tarpaper and old corrugated iron sheets and rough
thatch and in front of each squatted dejected clusters of men and women.
Only the children, dusty and skinny and sun-browned, were noisy and
almost defiantly rambunctious.  The encampment smelled of wood smoke and
the shallow pit latrines.

Somebody had erected a crudely lettered sign facing the railway tracks:
Vaal Hartz?  Hell No!  Anyone who applied for unemployment benefits was
immediately sent by the government labour department to work on the huge
Vaal Hartz river irrigation project for two shillings a day.

Rumours of the conditions in the labour camps there had filtered back,
and in the Transvaal there had been riots when the police had attempted
forcibly to transport men to the scheme.

All the better spots in the encampment were already occupied, so they
camped under a small camel-thorn bush and hung scraps of tarpaper in the
branches for shade.  Swart Hendrick was squatting beside the fire,
slowly trickling handfuls of white maize meal into a soot-blackened
billy of boiling water.  He looked up as Lothar came back from another
unsuccessful job hunt in the town.  When Lothar shook his head, Hendrick
returned to his cookery.

Where is Manfred?  Hendrick pointed with his chin at another shack near
by.

A dozen or so ragged men were sitting in a fascinated knot listening to
a tall bearded man in their midst.  He had the intense expression and
fanatically dark eyes of a zealot.

Mal Willem, Hendrick muttered.  Crazy William, and Lothar grunted as he
searched for Manfred and then recognized his son's shining blond head
amongst the others.

Satisfied that the boy was safe, Lothar took his pipe from his top
pocket, blew through it and then filled it with Magaliesberg shag.  The
pipe stank, and the black tobacco was rank and harsh, but cheap.  He
longed for a cheroot as he lit the pipe with a twig from the fire.  It
tasted disgusting, but he felt the soothing effect almost immediately
and he tossed the tobacco pouch to Hendrick and leaned back against the
trunk of the thorn tree.

What did you find out?  Hendrick had spent most of the night and morning
in the coloured.  shanty town across the other side of Windhoek.  if you
want to know a man's intimate secrets, ask the servants who wait at his
table and make his bed.

I found out that you can't get a drink on credit, and the Windhoek maids
don't do it for love alone.  He grinned.

Lothar spat tobacco juice and glanced across at his son.  It worried him
a little that the boy avoided the camp urchins of his own age and sat
with the men.  Yet the men seemed to accept him.

What else?  he asked Hendrick.

The man is called Fourie.  He has been working at the mine for ten
years.  He comes in with four or five trucks every week and goes back
loaded with stores.  For a minute Hendrick concentrated on mixing the
maize porridge, applying exactly the right heat from the fire.

Go on.  Then, on the first Monday of every month, he comes in one small
truck, the four other drivers with him riding in the back, all of them
armed with shotguns and pistols.  They go directly to the Standard Bank
in Main Street.  The manager and his staff come to the side door. Fourie
and one of his drivers carry a small iron box from the truck into the
bank.

Afterwards Fourie and his men go down to the corner bar and drink until
closing time.  In the morning they go back to the mine.  Once a month,
Lothar whispered.  They bring in a whole month's production at one time.
Then he looked up at Hendrick.  You said the corner bar? And when the
big black man nodded, I'll need at least ten shillings. 'What for?
Hendrick was immediately suspicious.

One of us has to buy the barman a drink and they don't serve blacks at
the corner bar.  Lothar smiled maliciously, then raised his voice.
Manfred!  The boy had been so mesmerized by the speaker that he had not
noticed his father's return.  He scrambled to his feet guiltily.

Hendrick dumped a lump of fluffy white maize porridge into the lid of
the billy and poured maas, thick soured milk, over it before he handed
it to Manfred where he squatted cross-legged beside his father.

Did you know that it's all a plot by the Jewish owners of the gold mines
in Johannesburg, Papa?  Manfred asked, his eyes shining like a religious
convert's.

What is?  Lothar grunted.

The Depression.  Manfred used the word importantly, for he had just
learned it.  It's been arranged by the Jews and the English so that they
will have all the men they want to work for them for nothing on their
mines and in their factories.  Is that so?  Lothar smiled as he spooned
up the maas and maize meal.  And did the Jews and the English arrange
the drought as well?  His hatred of the English did not extend beyond
the borders of reason, though it could not have been more intense had
the English indeed engineered the drought that had turned so many of his
people's farms into sandy wastelands, the topsoil blown away on the
wind, and the livestock into desiccated mummies embalmed in their own
plank-hard skins.

It's so, Papa!  Manfred cried.  Oom Willem explained it to us. He pulled
a rolled sheet of newsprint from his back pocket and spread it across
his knee.  Just look at this!  The newspaper was Die Vaderland, an
Afrikaans-language publication, The Fatherland', and the cartoon that
Manfred was pointing out with a forefinger that trembled with
indignation was in its typical style: Look what the Jews are doing to
us!  The main character in the cartoon was Hoggenheimer', one of Die
Vaderland's creations, depicted as a gross creature in frock coat and
spats, a huge diamond sparkling in his cravat, diamond rings on the
fingers of both his hands, a top hat over his dark Semitic curls, a
thick drooping lower lip and a great hooked beak of a nose the tip of
which almost touched his chin.  His pockets were stuffed with five-pound
notes and he brandished a long whip as he drove a loaded wagon towards
distant steel headgear towers labelled gold mines'.  In the traces of
the wagon were human beings instead of trek-oxen.  Lines of men and
women, skeletal and starving, with huge tortured eyes as they toiled
onwards under Hoggenheirner's whip.  The women wore the traditional
voortrekker bonnets, and the men slouch hats, and so that there could be
no mistake, the artist had labelled them Die Afrikaner Volk, the
Afrikaans people', and the caption to the cartoon was The New Great
Trek'.

Lothar chuckled and handed the news-sheet back to his son.  He knew very
few Jews, and none who looked like Hoggenheimer.  Most of them were as
hardworking and ordinary as anyone else, and now were as poor and
starving.

If life were as simple as that...  He shook his head.

It is, Papa!  All we have to do is get rid of the Jews, Oom Willem
explained it.  Lothar was about to reply when he realized that the smell
of their food had attracted three of the camp's children, who were
standing at a polite distance watching each spoonful he raised to his
mouth.  The cartoon was no longer important.

There was one older girl, about twelve years of age.  She was blonde,
her long braids bleached as silver and fine as the Kalahari grass in
winter.  She was so thin that her face seemed all bone and eyes,
prominent cheekbones and a high straight forehead.  Her eyes were the
light blue of the desert sky.  Her dress was of old flour sacks sewn
together, and her feet were bare.

Clinging to her skirts were two smaller children.  A boy with a shaven
head and large ears.  His skinny brown legs stuck out of his patched
khaki shorts.  The small girl had a runny nose, and she sucked her thumb
as she clung to her elder sister's skirts with the other hand.

Lothar looked away but suddenly the food lost its flavour and he chewed
with difficulty.  He saw that Hendrick was not looking at the children
either.  Manfred had not noticed them and was still poring over the
news-sheet.

If we feed them, we'll have every kid in the camp on our backs, Lothar
murmured, and he made a resolution never to eat in public again.

We've got just enough left for tonight, Hendrick agreed.

We cannot share it.  Lothar raised the spoon to his mouth, and then
lowered it.  He stared at the food on his tin plate for a moment and
then beckoned the eldest girl.

She came forward shyly.

Take it, Lothar ordered gruffly.

Thank you, Uncle, she whispered.  Dankie, Oom.  She whipped the plate
under her skirt, hiding it from other eyes, and then dragged the two
little ones away.  They disappeared amongst the huts.

The girl returned an hour later.  The plate and spoon had been polished
until they shone.  Does Oom have a shirt or anything that I can wash for
him, she asked.

Lothar opened his pack and handed over his and Manfred's soiled
clothing.  She brought the laundry back at sunset, smelling faintly of
carbolic soap and neatly folded.

Sorry, Oom, I didn't have a smoothing iron.  What is your name? Manfred
asked her suddenly.  She glanced around at him, blushed scarlet and
looked at the ground.

Sarah, she whispered.

Lothar buttoned the clean shirt.  Give me the ten shillings, he ordered.

We'd have our throats cut if anybody knew that I have that much money,
Hendrick grumbled.

You are wasting my time.  Time is the only thing we have plenty of.
Including the barman, there were only three men in the corner bar when
Lothar pushed through the swing doors.

Quiet tonight, Lothar remarked as he ordered a beer, and the barman
grunted.  He was a nondescript little man with wispy grey hair and
steel-framed spectacles.

Take .  a drink for yourself, Lothar offered, and the man's expression
changed.

I'll take a gin, thank you.  He poured from a special bottle that he
produced from under the counter.  They both knew that the colourless
liquid was water and the silver shilling would go directly into the
barman's pocket.

Your health.  He leaned over the counter, prepared to be affable for a
shilling and the possibility of another.

They chatted idly, agreeing that times were hard and would get harder,
that they needed rain and that the Government was to blame for it all.

How long have you been in town?  I haven't seen you around.  One day,
one day too long, Lothar smiled.

I didn't catch your name.  And when Lothar told him, he showed genuine
interest for the first time.

Hey, he called down the bar to his other customers.  Do you know who
this is?  It's Lothar De La Rey!  Don't you remember the reward posters
during the war?  He is the one that broke the hearts of the rooinekke.
Red neck was the derogatory term for the newly arrived Englishman whose
neck was inflamed by the sun.  Man, he blew up the train at
Gemsbokfontein.  So great was their approbation that one of them even
bought him another beer, but prudently limited his largesse to Lothar
alone.

I'm looking for a job, Lothar told them when they had

all become firm friends, and they all laughed.

I heard there was work out at the H'ani Mine, Lothar persisted.

I'd know if there was, the barman assured him.  The drivers from the
mine come in here every week.  Would you give them a good word about me?
Lothar asked.

I'll do better.  You come in Monday and I'll set you up with Gerhard
Fourie, the chief driver.  He is a good pal of mine.  He'll know what's
happening out there.  By the time Lothar left, he was established as a
good fellow and a member of the inner clique of the corner bar, and when
he returned four nights later he was hailed by the barman.

Fourie is here, he told Lothar.  Down at the end of the bar. I'll
introduce you after I've served these others.  The bar-room was half
full this evening, and Lothar was able to study the driver.  He was a
powerful-looking man of middle age, with a big slack gut from sitting
hours each day behind the driving-wheel.  He was balding but had grown
the hair above his right ear and then plastered it across his pate with
brilliantine.  His manner was bluff and loud; he and his mates had the
well-satisfied air of men who had just performed a difficult task.  He
didn't look like a man that you could threaten or frighten, but Lothar
had not yet finally decided on what approach to make.

The barman beckoned to him.  Like you to meet a good friend., They shook
hands.  The driver turned it into a contest but Lothar had half-expected
that and shortened his grip, taking his fingers rather than his palm so
that Fourie could not exert full force.  They held each other's eyes
until the driver winced and tried to pull his hand away.  Lothar let him
go.

Buy you a drink.  Lothar felt easier now, the man was not as tough as he
put out, and when the barman told them who Lothar was and related an
exaggerated version of some of his exploits during the war, Fourie's
manner became almost fawning and obsequious.

Look here, man.  He drew Lothar aside and lowered his voice. 'Erik tells
me you're looking for a job out at the H'ani Mine.  Well, you can forget
it, and that's straight.  They haven't taken on any new men in a year or
longer.  Yes.  Lothar nodded glumly.  Since I asked Erik about the job,
I've learned the truth about the H'ani Mine.  It will be terrible for
you all when it happens.  The driver looked uneasy.  What are you
talking about, man?  What truth is this?  Why, I thought you'd know.
Lothar seemed amazed by his ignorance.  They are going to close the mine
in August.

Shut it down.  Pay everybody off.  Good Christ, no!  There was fear in
Fourie's eyes.  That's not true, it can't be true.  The man was a
coward, gullible, easily impressed and even more easily influenced.
Lothar was grimly satisfied.

I'm sorry, but it's best to know the truth, isn't it?  Who told you
this?  Fourie was terrified.  He drove past the hobo camp down by the
railway every week.  He had seen the legion of the unemployed.

I am walking out with one of the women who works for Abraham Abrahams.
He was the attorney who conducted all the business of the H'ani Mine in
Windhoek.  She saw the letters from Mrs Courtney in Cape Town.  There is
no doubt.  The mine is shutting down.  They can't sell the diamonds.
Nobody is buying diamonds, not even in London and New York.  Oh my God!
My God!  whispered Fourie.  What are we going to do?  My wife isn't well
and we've got the six children.  Sweet Jesus, my kids will starve.  It's
all right for somebody like you.  I'll bet you've got a couple of
hundred quid saved up.  You'll be all right., But Fourie shook his head.

Well, if you haven't got anything saved, you'd best put a few pounds

aside before they lay you off in August.  How does a man do that?

How do I save, with a wife and six kids?  Fourie demanded hopelessly.

I tell you what.  Lothar took his arm in a friendly concerned grip.
Let's get out of here.  I'll buy a bottle of brandy.

Let's go some place where we can talk.  The sun was up by the time
Lothar got back to the camp the following morning.  They had emptied the
brandy bottle while they talked the night away.  The driver was
intrigued tempted by Lothar's proposition but unsure and afraid.

and Lothar had to explain and convince him of every single point,
particularly of his own safety.  Nobody will ever be able to point a
finger at you.  I give you my sacred word on it.  You will be protected
even if something goes wrong, and nothing will go wrong.  Lothar had
used all his powers of persuasion, and he was tired now as he trudged
through the encampment and squatted down beside Hendrick.

Coffee?  he asked and belched the taste of old brandy into his mouth.

Finished.  Hendrick shook his head.

Where is Manfred?  Hendrick pointed with his chin.  Manfred was sitting
under a thorn bush at the far end of the camp.  The girl Sarah was
beside him, their blond heads almost touching as they pored over . a
sheet of newsprint.  Manfred was writing on the margin of the page with
a charcoal stick from the camp fire.

Manie is teaching her to read and write, Hendrick explained.

Lothar grunted and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.  His head ached from the
brandy.

Well, he said.  We've got our man.  Ali!  Hendrick grinned. 'Then we
will need the horses., The private railway coach had once belonged to
Cecil Rhodes and the De Beers Diamond Company.  Centaine Courtney had
purchased it for a fraction of the price that a new carriage would have
cost her, a fact that gave her satisfaction.  She was still a
Frenchwoman and knew the value of a sou and a franc.  She had brought
out a young designer from Paris to redecorate the carriage in the Art
Deco style, which was all the rage, and he had been worth every penny of
his fee.

She looked around the saloon, at the uncluttered lines of the
furnishings, at the whimsical nude nymphs which supported the bronze
light-fittings and the Aubrey Beardsley designs inlaid with exquisite
workmanship into the lightwood panelling and she remembered that the
designer had struck her at first as being a homosexual, with his long
flowing locks, his darkly decadent eyes and the features of a beautiful,
bored and cynical faun.  Her first estimate had been far wide of the
truth, as she had discovered to her delight on the circular bed which he
had installed in the coach's main bedroom suite.  She smiled at the
memory and then checked the smile as she saw that Shasa was watching
her.

You know, Mater, I sometimes think I can see what you are thinking, just
by looking into your eyes.  He said these disconcerting things
sometimes, and she was sure that he had grown another inch in the last
week.

I certainly hope that you cannot.  She shivered.  It's cold in here. The
designer had incorporated, at enormous expense, a refrigeration machine
which cooled the air in the saloon.  Do turn that thing off, She stood
up from her desk and went out through the frosted glass doors onto the
balcony of the coach and the hot desert air rushed at her and flattened
her skirts across her narrow boyish hips.  She lifted her face to the
sun and let the wind ruffle her short curly hair.

What time is it?  she asked with her eyes closed and face uplifted, and
Shasa who had followed her out leaned against the balcony rail and
consulted his wristwatch.

We should be crossing the Orange river in the next ten minutes, if the
engine driver has kept us on schedule.  I never feel as though we are
home until I cross the Orange.  Centaine went to lean beside him and
slipped her arm through his.

The Orange river drained the western watershed of the southern African
continent, rising high in the snowy mountains of Basutoland and running
down fourteen hundred miles through grassy veld and wild gorges, at some
seasons a clear slow trickle and at other times a thunderous brown flood
bringing down the rich chocolate silts so that some called it the Nile
of the south.  it was the boundary between the Cape of Good Hope and the
former German colony of South West Africa.

The locomotive whistled and the coupling jolted as the brakes squealed.

We are slowing for the bridge.  Shasa leaned out over the balcony, and
Centaine bit back the caution that came automatically to her lips.

Beg your pardon, you can't baby him forever, Missus, Jock Murphy had
advised her.  He's a man now, and a man's got to take his own chances.,
The tracks curved down towards the river, and they could see the Daimler
riding on the flat bed behind the locomotive.

It was a new vehicle; Centaine changed them every year.

However, it also was yellow, as they all were, but with a black bonnet
and black piping around the doors.  The train journey to Windhoek saved
them the onerous drive across the desert, but there was no line out to
the mine.

There it is!  Shasa called.  There is the bridge The steelwork seemed
feathery and insubstantial as it crossed the half mile of riverbed,
leapfrogging across its concrete buttresses.  The regular beat of the
bogey wheels over the cross ties altered as they ran out onto the span,
and the steel girders beneath them rang like an orchestra.

The river of diamonds, Centaine murmured as she leaned shoulder to
shoulder with Shasa and peered down into the coffee-brown waters that
swirled around the piers of the bridge beneath them.

Where do the diamonds come from?  Shasa asked.  He knew the answer, of
course, but he liked to hear her tell it to him.

The river gathers them up, from every little pocket and crevice and pipe
along its course.  It picks up those that were flung into the air during
the volcanic eruptions at the beginning of the continent's existence.
For hundreds of millions of years it has been concentrating the diamonds
and carrying them down towards the coast.  She glanced sideways at him.
And why aren't they worn away, like all the other pebbles?  Because they
are the hardest substance in nature.  Nothing wears or scratches a
diamond, he answered promptly.

Nothing is harder or more beautiful, she agreed, and held up her right
hand before his face so that the huge marquis cut diamond on her
forefinger dazzled him.  You will grow to love them.  Everybody who
works with them comes to love them.  The river, he reminded her.  He
loved her voice.  The husky trace of her accent intrigued him.  Tell me
about the river, he demanded, and listened avidly as she went on.

Where the river runs into the sea, it has thrown its diamonds up on the
beaches.  Those beaches are so rich in diamonds that they are the
forbidden area, the Spieregebied.  Could you fill your pockets with
diamonds, just pick them up like fallen fruit in the orchard? 'It's not
as easy as that, she laughed.  You could search for twenty years and not
find a single stone, but if you knew where to look and had even the most
primitive equipment and a great deal of luck- Why can't we go in there,
Mater?  Because, mon cheri, it is all taken.  It belongs to a man named
Oppenheimer, Sir Ernest Oppenheimer, and his company called De Beers.
One company owns it all.  That's not fair! he protested, and Centaine
was delighted to notice the acquisitive sparkle in his eyes for the
first time.  Without a healthy measure of avarice, he would not be
capable of carrying through the plans she was so carefully laying for
him.  She had to teach him to be greedy, for wealth and for power.

He owns the Orange river concessions, she nodded, and he owns the
Kimberley and Wesselton and Bultfontein and all the other great
producing mines, but more, much

more than that, he controls the sale of every single stone,

even those produced by us, the few little independents.  He controls us,
he controls the H'ani?  Shasa demanded indignantly, his smooth cheeks
flushing.

Centaine nodded.  We have to offer every diamond we mine to his Central
Saling Organization, and he will set a price upon it.  And we have to
accept his price?  No, we don't!  But we would be very unwise not to do
so.  What could he do to us if we refused?  Shasa, I have told you often
before.  Don't fight with somebody stronger than yourself.  There aren't
many people stronger than us, not in Africa anyway, but Sir Ernest
Oppenheimer is one of them.  What could he do?  Shasa persisted.

He could eat us up, my darling, and nothing would give him greater
pleasure.  Each year we become richer and more attractive to him.  He is
the one man in the world that we have to be afraid of, especially if we
were rash enough to come near this river of his.  She swept a gesture
across the wide river.

Although it had been named Orange by its Dutch discoverers for the
Stadtholders of the House of Orange, the name could have as readily
applied to its startling orangecoloured sandbanks.  The bright plumage
of the waterfowl clustered upon them were like precious stones set in
red gold.

He owns the river?  Shasa was surprised and perplexed.

Not legally, but you approach it at your own peril for he protects it
and the diamonds it contains with his jealous wrath.  So there are
diamonds here?  Eagerly Shasa scanned the banks as though he expected to
see them sparkling seductively in the sunlight.

Dr Twenty-man-Jones and I both believe it, and we have isolated some
very interesting areas.  Two hundred miles upstream is a waterfall that
the Bushmen called the Place of the Great Noise, Aughrabies. There the
Orange thunders

through a narrow rocky chute and falls into the deep, inaccessible gorge
below.  The gorge should be a treasurehouse of captured diamonds.

Then there are other ancient alluvial beds where the river has changed
its course.  They left the river and its narrow strip of greenery and
the loco accelerated again as they ran on northwards into the desert.
Centaine watched Shasa's face carefully as she went on explaining and
lecturing.  She would never go on until she reached the point of
boredom, at the first sign of inattention, she would stop.  She did not
have to press.  There was all the time necessary for his education, but
the one single most important consideration was never to tire him, never
to outrun his immature strength or his undeveloped powers of
concentration.  She must retain his enthusiasm intact and never jade
him.  This time his interest persisted beyond its usual span, and she
recognized it was time for another advance.

It will have warmed up in the saloon.  Let's go in.  She led him to her
desk.  There are some things I want to show you.  She opened the
confidential summary of the annual financial reports of the Courtney
Mining and Finance Company.

This would be the difficult part, even for her the paperwork was deadly
dull, and she saw him immediately daunted by the columns of figures.
Mathematics was his only weak subject.

You enjoy chess, don't you?  Yes, he agreed cautiously.

This is a game also, she assured him.  But a thousand times more
fascinating and rewarding, once you understand the rules.  He cheered up
visibly, games and rewards Shasa understood.

Teach me the rules, he invited.

Not all at one time.  Bit by bit, until you know enough to start
playing.  It was evening before she saw the fatigue in the lines at the
corners of his mouth and the white rims to his nostrils, but he was
still frowning with concentration.

That's enough for today.  She closed the thick folder.

What are the golden rules?  You must always sell something for more than
it cost you.  She nodded encouragement.

And you must buy when everybody else is selling, and you must sell when
everybody else is buying.  Good.  She stood up.  Now a breath of fresh
air before we change for dinner.  On the balcony of the coach she placed
her arm around his shoulders, and she had to reach up to do so.  When we
get to the mine, I want you to work with Dr Twenty-man Jones in the
mornings.  You may have the afternoons free, but you'll work in the
mornings.  I want you to get to know the mine and all its workings.  Of
course, I will pay you., That isn't necessary, Mater.  Another golden
rule, my darling, never refuse a fair offer. Through the night and all
the following day they ran on northwards across great spaces bleached by
the sun, with blue mountains traced in darker blue against the desert
horizons.

We should get into Windhoek a little after sunset, Centaine explained.
But I have arranged for the coach to be shunted on to a quiet spur and
we will spend the night aboard and leave for the mine in the morning. Dr
Twenty-man-Jones and Abraham Abrahams will be dining with us, so we will
dress.  In his shirtsleeves Shasa was standing in front of the long
mirror in his compartment, struggling with his black bow tie, he had not
yet entirely mastered the art of shaping the butterfly, when he felt the
coach slowing and heard the loco blow a long eerie blast.

He felt a prickle of excitement and turned to the open window. They were
crossing the shoulder of hills above the town of Windhoek, and the
street lights came on even as he watched.  The town was the size of one
of Cape Town's suburbs and only the few central streets were lit.

The train slowed to a walking pace as they reached the outskirts of the
town, and Shasa smelled wood-smoke.  Then he noticed that there was some
sort of encampment amongst the thorn trees beside the tracks. He leaned
out of the window to see more clearly and stared at the clusters of dy
shanties, wreathed in the blue smoke of campfires and shaded by the
deepening dusk.  There was a crudely lettered sign facing the tracks and
Shasa read it with difficulty: Vaal Hartz?  Hell No!  It made no sense
and he frowned as he noticed two figures standing near the sign,
watching the passing train.

The shorter of the two was a girl, barefoot and with a thin shapeless
dress over her frail body.  She did not interest him and he transferred
his attention to the taller, more robust figure beside her.

Immediately he straightened in shock and rising indignation.  Even in
the poor light, he recognized that silver-blond shock of hair and the
black eyebrows.  They stared at each other expressionlessly, the boy in
the white dress shirt and black tie in the lighted window and the boy in
dusty khaki.  Then the train slid past and hid them from each other.

Darling Shasa turned from the window to face his mother.  She was
wearing sapphires tonight and a blue dress as filmy and light as
wood-smoke.  You aren't ready yet.  We'll be in the station in a minute
- and what a mess you have made of your tie.  Come here and let me do it
for you.  As she stood in front of him and shaped the bow with dextrous
fingers, Shasa struggled to contain and suppress the anger and sense of
inadequacy that a mere glimpse of the other boy had aroused in him.

The driver of the locomotive shunted them off the main track on to a
private spur beyond the sheds of the railway workshop and uncoupled them
beside the concrete ramp where Abraham Abrahams Ford was already parked,
and Abe scampered up on to the balcony the moment the coach came to a
stop.

Centaine, you are more beautiful than ever.  He kissed her hand and then
each of her cheeks.  He was a little man, just Centaine's height, with a
lively expression and quick, alert eyes.  His ears were pricked up as
though he were listening to a sound that nobody else could hear.

His studs were diamond and onyx, which was flashy, and his dinner jacket
was a little too extravagantly cut, but he was one of Centaine's
favourite people.  He had stood by her when her total wealth had
amounted to something less than ten pounds.  He had filed the claims for
the H'ani Mine and since then conducted most of her legal business and
many of her private affairs as well.  He was an old and dear friend but,
more important, he did not make mistakes in his work.

He wouldn't have been here if he did.

Dear Abe.  She took both his hands and squeezed them.

How is Rachel?  Outstanding, he assured her.  It was his favourite
adiective.  She sends her apologies, but the new baby Of course.
Centaine nodded, understanding.  Abraham knew her preferences for
masculine company and seldom brought his wife with him, even when
invited to do so.

Centaine turned from her lawyer to the other tall stoop shouldered
figure that was hovering at the gate of the balcony.

Dr Twenty-man-jones.  She held out her hands.

Mrs Courtney, he murmured like an undertaker.

Centaine put on her most radiant smile.  It was her own little game, to
see if she could inveigle him into the smallest display of pleasure. She
lost again.  His apparent gloom deepened until he looked like a
bloodhound in mourning.

Their relationship went back almost as far as Centaine's with Abraham.
He had been a consulting mining engineer with the De Beers Diamond
Company, but he had evaluated and opened the H'ani workings for her back
in 1919.  It had taken almost five years of her most winning persuasion
before he had agreed to come to work for the H'ani Mine as Resident
Engineer.  He was probably the best diamond man in South Africa, which
meant the best in the world.

Centaine led the two of them into the saloon and waved the
white-jacketed barman aside.

Abraham, a glass of champagne?  She poured the wine with her own hands.
And Dr Twentyrnan-Jones, a little Madeira?  You never forget, Mrs
Courtney, he admitted miserably as she carried the glass to him. Between
them it was always full titles and surnames, although their friendship
had stood all the tests.

I give you good health, gentlemen.  Centaine saluted them, and when they
had drunk she glanced across at the far door.

On cue Shasa came through and Centaine watched critically as he shook
hands with each of the men.  He conducted himself with just the correct
amount of deference for their age, showed no discomfort when Abraham
over-effusively embraced him and then returned Twentyrnan-Jones's
greeting with equal solemnity.  She gave a small nod of approval and
took her seat behind her desk.  it was her sign that the niceties had
been observed and they could get on to business.

The two men quickly perched on the elegant but uncomfortable Art Deco
chairs and leaned towards her attentively.

It has come at last, Centaine told them.  They have cut our quota.  They
rocked back in their seats and exchanged a brief glance before turning
back to Centaine.

We have been expecting it for almost a year, Abraham pointed out.

Which does not make the actuality any more pleasant, Centaine told him
tartly.

How much?  Twenty-man-Jones asked.

Forty percent, Centaine answered, and he looked as though he might burst
into tears while he considered it.

Each of the independent diamond producers was allocated a quota by the
Central Selling Organization.  The arrangement was informal and probably
illegal, but nonetheless rigorously enforced, and none of the
independents had ever been foolhardy enough to test the legality of the
system or the share of the market they were given.

Forty percent!  Abraham burst out.  That's iniquitous!  An accurate
observation, dear Abe, but not particularly useful at this stage.
Centaine looked to Twenty-man-Jones.

No change in the categories?  he asked.  The quotas were broken down by
carat weight into the different types of stones, from dark industrial
boart to the finest gem quality, and by size from the tiny crystals of
ten points and smaller to the big valuable stones.

Same percentages, Centaine agreed, and he slumped in his chair, pulled a
notebook from his inside pocket and began a series of quick
calculations.  Centaine glanced behind her to where Shasa leaned against
the panelled bulkhead.

Do you understand what we are talking about?  The quota?  Yes, I think
so, Mater.  If you don't understand, then ask, she ordered brusquely and
turned back to Twenty-man-Jones.

Could you appeal for a ten percent increase at the top end?  he asked,
but she shook her head.

I have already done so and they turned me down.  De Beers in their
infinite compassion point out that the biggest drop in demand has been
at the top end, at the gem and jewellery level.  He returned to his
notebook, and they listened to his pencil scratching on the paper until
he looked up.

Can we break even?  Centaine asked quietly, and Twenty-man-Jones looked
as though he might shoot himself rather than reply.

It will be close,he whispered, and we'll have to fire and cut and hone,
but we should be able to pay costs, and perhaps even turn a small profit
still, depending upon the floor price that De Beers sets. But the cream
will be skimmed off the top, I'm afraid, Mrs Courtney. Centaine felt
weak and trembly with relief.  She took her hands off the desk and
placed them in her lap so the others might not notice.  She did not
speak for a few moments, and then she cleared her throat to make certain
her voice did not quaver.

The effective date for the quota cut is the first of March, she said.
That means we can deliver one more full package.

You know what to do, Dr Twenty-man-jones.  We will fill the package with
sweeteners, Mrs Courtney.  What is a sweetener, Dr Twenty-man-jones?
Shasa spoke for the first time, and the engineer turned to him
seriously.

When we turn up a number of truly excellent diamonds in one period of
production, we reserve some of the best of them, set them aside to
include in a future package which might be of inferior quality.  We have
a reserve of these high quality stones which we will now deliver to the
CSO while we still have the opportunity.  I understand, Shasa nodded.
Thank you, Dr Twenty-man-Jones.  Pleased to be of service, Master Shasa.
Centaine stood up.  We can go in to dinner now, and the white-jacketed
servant opened the sliding doors through into the dining room where the
long table gleamed with silver and crystal and the yellow roses stood
tall in their antique celadon vases.

A mile down the railway track from where Centaine's coach stood, two men
sat huddled over a smoky campfire watching the maize porridge bubbling
in the billy-can and discussing the horses.  The entire plan hinged on
the horses.  They needed at least fifteen, and they had to be strong,
desert hardened animals.

The man I am thinking of is a good friend, Lothar said.

Even the best friend in the world won't lend you fifteen good horses. We
can't do it with less than fifteen, and you won't buy them for a hundred
pounds.  Lothar sucked on the stinking clay pipe and it gurgled
obscenely.  He spat the yellow juice into the fire.  I'd pay a hundred
pounds for a decent cheroot, he murmured.

Not my hundred, you won't, Hendrick contradicted him.

Leave the horses for now, Lothar suggested.  Let's go over the men we
need for the relays.  The men are easier than the horses. Hendrick
grinned.

These days you can buy a good man for the price of a meal, and have his
wife for the pudding.  I have already sent messages to them to meet us
at Wild Horse Pan.  They both glanced up as Manfred came out of the
darkness, and when Lothar saw his son's expression he stuffed the
notebook into his pocket and stood up quickly.

Papa, you must come quickly, Manfred pleaded.

What is it, Manie?  Sarah's mother and the little ones.  They are all
sick.  I told them you would come, Papa.  Lothar had the reputation of
being able to heal humans and animals of all their ills, from gunshot
wounds and measles to staggers and distemper.

Sarah's family was living under a tattered sheet of tarpaulin near the
centre of the encampment.  The woman lay beneath a greasy blanket with
the two small children beside her.  Though she was probably not older
than thirty years, care and punishing labour and poor food had greyed
and shrunken her into an old woman.  She had lost most of her upper
teeth so that her face seemed to have collapsed.

Sarah knelt beside her with a damp rag with which she was trying to wipe
her flushed face.  The woman rolled her head from side to side and
mumbled in delirium.

Lothar knelt on the woman's other side, facing the girl.

Where is your pa, Sarah?  He should be here., He went away to find work
on the mines, she whispered.

When?  Long ago.  And then she went on loyally, But he is going to send
for us, and we are going to live in a nice house How long has your ma
been sick?  Since last night.  Sarah tried again to place the rag on the
woman's forehead but she struck it away weakly.

And the babies?  Lothar studied their swollen faces.

Since the morning.  Lothar drew back the blanket and the stench of
liquid faeces was thick and choking.

I tried to clean them, Sarah whispered defensively, but they just dirty
themselves again.  I don't know what to do., Lothar lifted the little
girl's soiled dress.  Her small pot belly was swollen with malnutrition
and her skin was chalky white.  An angry crimson rash was blazoned
across it.

involuntarily Lothar jerked his hands away.  Manfred, he demanded
sharply.  Have you touched them, any of them?  Yes, Pa.  I tried to help
Sarah clean them.  Go to Hendrick, Lothar ordered.  Tell him we are
leaving immediately.  We have to get out of here.  What is it, Pa?
Manfred lingered.

Do as I tell you, Lothar told him angrily, and when Manfred backed away
into the darkness, he returned to the girl.

Have you been boiling your drinking water?  he asked, and she shook her
head.

It was always the same, Lothar thought.  Simple country people who had
lived far from other human habitation all their lives, drinking at sweet
clean springs and defecating carelessly in the open veld.  They did not
understand the hazards when forced to live in close proximity to others.

What is it, Oom?  Sarah asked softly.  What is wrong with them?  Enteric
fever.  Lothar saw that it meant nothing to her.

Typhoid fever, he tried again.

Is it bad?  she asked helplessly, and he could not meet her eyes. He
looked again at the two small children.  The fever had burned them out,
and the diarrhoea had dehydrated them.  Already it was too late. With
the mother there was perhaps still a chance, but she had been weakened
also.

Yes, Lothar said.  It is bad.  The typhoid would be spreading through
the encampment like fire in the winter-dry veld.

There was already a good chance that Manfred might have been infected,
and at the thought he stood up quickly and stepped away from the
foul-smelling mattress.

What must I do?  Sarah pleaded.

Give them plenty to drink, but make sure the water is boiled. Lothar
backed away.  He had seen typhoid in the concentration camps of the
English during the war.  The death-toll had been more horrible than that
of the battlefield.

He had to get Manfred away from here.

Do you have medicine for it, Oom?  Sarah followed him.

I don't want my ma to die, I don't want my baby sister if you can give
me some medicine, She was struggling with her tears, bewildered and
afraid, turning to him in pathetic trust.

Lothar's only duty was to his own, yet he was torn by the child's little
display of courage.  He wanted to tell her, There is no medicine for
them.  There is nothing that can be done for them.  They are in God's
hands now.  Sarah came after him and took Lothar's hand, tugging
desperately at it as she tried to lead him back to the shelter where the
woman and the two small children lay dying.

Help me, Oom.  Help me to make them better.  Lothar's skin crawled at
the girl's touch.  He could imagine the loathsome infection being
transferred from her warm soft skin.  He had to get away.

Stay here, he told her, trying to disguise his revulsion.

Give them water to drink.  I will go to fetch medicine.  When will you
come back?  She looked up trustingly into his face, and it took all his
strength to tell the lie.

I will come back as soon as I can,he promised, and gently broke her
grip.

Give them water, he repeated, and turned away, Thank you, she called
after him softly.  God bless you, you are a kind man, Oom. Lothar could
not reply.  He could not even look back.

Instead he hurried through the darkened camp.  This time, because he was
listening for them, he picked up the other little sounds from the huts
he passed: the fretful feverish cry of a child, the gasp and moan of a
woman in the terrible abdominal cramps of enteric fever, the concerned
murmurs of those who tended them.

From one of the tarpaper huts a gaunt dark creature emerged and clutched
at his arm.  He was not sure whether it was man or woman until she spoke
in a cracked almost demented falsetto.

Are you a doctor?  I have to find a doctor.  Lothar shrugged off the
clawed hand and broke into a run.

Swart Hendrick was waiting for him.  He had the pack on his shoulder
already and was kicking sand over the embers of the campfire. Manfred
squatted on one side, beneath the thorn tree.

Enteric.  Lothar said the dread word.  It's through the camp already.
Hendrick froze.  Lothar had seen him stand down the charge of a wounded
bull elephant, but he was afraid now.

Lothar could see it in the way he held his great black head and smell it
on him, a strange odour like that of one of the copper-hooded desert
cobras when aroused.

Come on, Manfred.  We are getting out.  Where are we going, Pa? Manfred
remained squatting.

Away from here, away from the town and this plague.  What about Sarah?
Manfred ducked his head on to his shoulders, a stubborn gesture which
Lothar recognized.

She is nothing to us.  There is nothing we can do.  She's going to die,
like her ma, and the little kids.  Manfred looked up at his father.
She's going to die, isn't she?  Get up on your feet, Lothar snarled at
him.  His guilt made him fierce.  We are going.  He made an
authoritative gesture and Hendrick reached down and hauled Manfred to
his feet.

Come, Manie, listen to your Pa.  He followed Lothar, dragging the boy by
his arm.

They crossed the railway embankment and Manfred stopped pulling back.
Hendrick released him, and he followed obediently.  Within the hour they
reached the main road, a dusty silver river in the moonlight running
down the pass through the hills, and Lothar halted.

Are we going for the horses now?  Hendrick asked.

Yes.  Lothar nodded.  That's the next step.  But his head turned back in
the direction they had come and they were all silent, looking back with
him.

I couldn't take the chance, Lothar explained.  I couldn't let Manfred
stay near them.  Neither of them answered.  We have to get on with our
preparations, the horses, we have to get the horses, His voice trailed
off.

Suddenly Lothar snatched the pack from Hendrick's shoulder and threw it
to the ground.  He ripped it open angrily and snatched out the small
canvas roll in which he kept his surgical instruments and store of
medicines.

Take Manie, he ordered Hendrick.  Wait for me in the gorge of the Gamas
river, at the same place we camped on the march from Usakos. You
remember it?  Hendrick nodded.  How long will it be before you come?  As
long as it takes them to die, said Lothar.  He stood up and looked at
Manfred.

Do what Hendrick tells you, he ordered.

Can't I come with you, Pa?  Lothar did not bother to reply.  He turned
and strode back amongst the moonlit thorn trees and they watched him
until he disappeared.  Then Hendrick dropped to his knees and began
re-rolling the pack.

Sarah squatted beside the fire, her skirts pulled up around her skinny
brown thighs, slitting her eyes against the smoke as she waited for the
soot-blackened billy to boil.

She looked up and saw Lothar standing at the edge of the firelight.  She
stared at him, and then slowly her pale delicate features seemed to
crumple and the tears streamed down her cheeks, glistening in the light
of the flames.

I thought you weren't coming back, she whispered.  I thought you had
gone.  Lothar shook his head abruptly, still so angry with his own
weakness that he could not trust himself to speak.

Instead he squatted across the fire from her and spread the canvas roll.
Its contents were pitifully inadequate.  He could draw a rotten tooth,
lance a boil or a snake-bite, or set a broken limb, but to treat runaway
enteric there was almost nothing.  He measured a spoonful of a black
patent medicine, Chamberlain's Famous Diarrhoea Remedy, into the tin mug
and filled it with hot water from the billy.

Help me, he ordered Sarah and between them they lifted the youngest
child into a sitting position.  She was without weight and he could feel
every bone in her tiny body, like that of a fledgling taken from the
nest.  It was hopeless.

She'll be dead by morning he thought, and held the mug to her lips.  She
did not last that long; she slipped away a few hours before dawn.  The
moment of death was ill-defined, and Lothar was not certain it was over
until he felt for the child's pulse at the carotid and felt the chill of
eternity in her wasted flesh.

The little boy lasted until noon and died with as little fuss as his
sister.  Lothar wrapped them in the same grey, soiled blanket and
carried them in his arms to the communal grave that had been already dug
at the edge of the camp.

They made a small lonely little package on the sandy floor of the square
excavation, at the end of the row of larger bodies.

Sarah's mother fought for her life.

God knows why she should want to go on living, Lothar thought, there
isn't much in it for her.  But she moaned and rolled her head and cried
out in the delirium of fever.  Lothar began to hate her for the stubborn
struggle to survive that kept him beside her foul mattress, forced to
share in her degradation, to touch her hot fever-wracked skin and
dribble liquid into her toothless mouth.

At dusk he thought she had won.  Her skin cooled and she was quieter.
She reached out feebly for Sarah's hand and tried to speak, staring up
at her face as though she recognized her, the words catching and cawing
in the back of her throat and thick yellow mucus bubbling in the corners
of her lips.

The effort was too much.  She closed her eyes and seemed to sleep.

Sarah wiped her lips and held on to the thin bony hand with the blue
veins swelling under the thin skin.

An hour later the woman sat up suddenly, and said clearly: Sarah, where
are you, child?  then fell back and fought for a long strangling breath.
The breath ended in the middle and her bony chest subsided gradually,
and the flesh seemed to droop from her face like warm candlewax.

This time Sarah walked beside him as Lothar carried the woman to the
grave site.  He laid her at the end of the row of corpses.  Then they
walked back to the hut.

Sarah stood and watched Lothar roll the canvas pack, and her small white
face was desolate.  He went half a dozen paces and then turned back. She
was quivering like a rejected puppy, but she had not moved.

All right, he sighed with resignation.  Come on, then.  And she
scampered to his side.

I won't be any trouble, she gabbled, almost hysterical with relief. I'll
help you.  I can cook and sew and wash.  I won't be any trouble.  What
are you going to do with her?  Hendrick asked.  She can't stay with us.
We could never do what we have to do with a child of her age.  I could
not leave her there, Lothar defended himself, in that death camp.  It
would have been better for us.  Hendrick shrugged.  But what do we do
now?  They had left the camp in the bottom of the gorge and climbed to
the top of the rocky wall.  The children were far below on the sandbank
at the edge of the only stagnant green pool in the gorge that still held
water.

They squatted side by side, Manfred with his right hand extended as he
held the handline.  They saw him lean back and strike, then heave the
line in hand over hand.  Sarah jumped up and her excited shrieks carried
up to where they sat.  They watched Manfred swing the kicking slippery
black catfish out of the green water.  It squirmed on the sand,
glistening with wetness.

I will decide what to do with her, Lothar assured him, but Hendrick
interrupted.

It better be soon.  Every day we waste the water-holes in the north are
drying out, and we still don't even have the horses.  Lothar stuffed his
clay pipe with fresh shag and thought about it.  Hendrick was right; the
girl complicated everything.  He had to get rid of her somehow. Suddenly
he looked up from the pipe and smiled.

My cousin, he said, and Hendrick was puzzled.

I did not know you had a cousin.  Most of them perished in the camps,
but Trudi survived.  Where is she, this beloved cousin of yours?  She
lives on our road to the north.  We'll waste no time in dumping the brat
with her.  I don't want to go, Sarah whispered miserably.  I don't know
your aunt.  I want to stay here with you. 'Hush, Manfred cautioned her.
You'll wake Pa and Henny.  He pressed closer to her and touched her lips
to quieten her.  The fire had died down and the moon had set.

Only the desert stars lit them, big as candles against the black velvet
curtain of the sky.

Sarah's voice was so small now that he could barely make out the words,
though her lips were inches from his ear.

You are the only friend I have ever had, she said, and who will teach me
to read and write?  Manfred felt an enormous weight of responsibility
conferred upon him by her words.  His feelings for her to this A moment
had been ambivalent.  Like her he had never had friends of his own age,
never attended a school, never lived in a town.

His only teacher had been his father.  He had lived all his life with
grown men; his father and Hendrick and the rough hard men of the road
camps and trawler fleet.

There had been no woman to caress or gentle him.

She had been his first female companion, though her weakness and
silliness irritated him.  He had to wait for her to catch up when they
climbed the hills and she wept when he beat a squirming catfish to death
or wrung the neck of a fat feathered brown francolin taken in one of his
noose snares.  However, she could make him laugh and he enjoyed her
voice when she sang, thin but sweet and melodious.  Then again although
her adulation was sometimes cloying and excessive, he experienced an
unaccountable sense of well being when she was with him. She was quick
to learn and in the few days they had been together she already had the
alphabet by heart and the multiplication tables from two to ten.

It would have been much better if she had been a boy, but then there was
something else.  The smell of her skin and the softness of her intrigued
him.  Her hair was so fine and silky.  Sometimes he would touch it as
though by accident and she would freeze and keep very still under his
fingers, so that he was embarrassed and dropped his hand
self-consciously.

Occasionally she would brush against him like an affectionate cat and
the strange pleasure this gave him was out of all proportion to the
brief contact; and when they slept under the same blanket, he would
awake in the night and listen to her breathing and her hair tickled his
face.

The road to Okahandja was long and hard and dusty.  They had been on it
for five days now.  They travelled only in the early morning and late
evening.  In the noonday the men would rest up in the shade, and the two
children could sneak away to talk and set snares or go over Sarah's
lessons.  They did not play games of make-believe as other children of
their age might have done.  Their lives were too close to harsh reality.
And now a new threat had been thrust upon them: the threat of separation
which grew more menacing with each mile of road that fell behind them.
Manfred could not find the words of comfort for her.  His own sense of
coming loss was aggravated by her declaration of friendship.  She
snuggled against him under the single blanket and the heat that emanated
from her thin frail body was startling.  Awkwardly he slipped an arm
around her thin shoulders and her hair was soft against his cheek.

I'll come back for you.  He had not meant to say that.  He had not even
thought it before that moment.

Promise me.  She twisted so that her lips were by his ear.

Promise me you will come back to fetch me., I promise I will come back
to you, he repeated solemnly, appalled at what he was doing. He had no
control over his future, could never be certain of honouring a promise
like that.

When?  She fastened on it eagerly.  We have something to do.  Manfred
did not know the details of what his father and Henny were planning.  He
only understood that it was arduous and somehow dangerous.

Something important.  No, I can't tell you about it.  But, when it is
over, we will come back for you.  It seemed to satisfy her.  She sighed,
and he felt the tension go out of her limbs.  Her whole body softened
with sleepiness, and her voice drifted into a low murmur.

You are my friend, aren't you, Manie?  Yes.  I'm your friend. My best
friend?  Yes, your best friend.  She sighed again and fell asleep.  He
stroked her hair, so soft and fluffy under his hand, and he was assailed
by the melancholy of impending loss.  He felt that he would weep, but
that was a girlish thing and he would not let it happen.

The following evening they trudged ankle-deep in the floury white dust
up another fold in the vast undulating plain, and when the children
caught up with Lothar at the crest, he pointed wordlessly ahead.

The cluster of iron roofs of the little frontier town of Okahandja shone
in the lowering sunlight like mirrors, and in their midst was the single
spire of a church.  Also clad in corrugated iron, it barely topped the
trees which grew around it.

A We'll be there after dark.  Lothar eased his pack to his other
shoulder and looked down at the girl.  Her fine hair was plastered with
dust and sweat to her forehead and cheeks, and her untidy sun-streaked
blond pigtails stuck out behind her ears like horns.  The sun had burned
her so dark that were it not for the fair hair she might have been a
Nama child.  She was dressed as simply and her bare feet were white with
floury dust.

Lothar had considered and then rejected the idea of buying her a new
dress and shoes at one of the little general-dealer's stores along the
road.  The expense might have been worthwhile, for if the child were
rejected by his cousin, He did not follow the thought further.  He would
clean her up a little at the borehole that supplied the town's water.

The lady you will be staying with is Mevrou Trudi Bierman.  She is a
very kind religious lady., Lothar had little in common with his cousin.
They had not met in thirteen years.  She is married to the dominie of
the Dutch Reformed Church here at Okahandja.  He is also a fine
God-fearing man.  They have children your age.  You will be very happy
with them.  Will he teach me to read like Manie does?  Of course he
will.  Lothar was prepared to give any assurance to rid himself of the
child.  He teaches his own children and you will be like one of them.
Why can't Manie stay with me?  Manie has to come with me.  Please, can't
I come with you too?  No, you cannot.  You'll stay here, and I don't
want to go over that again.  At the reservoir of the borehole pump Sarah
bathed the dust from her legs and arms and dampened her hair before
re-plaiting her pigtails.

I'm ready, she told Lothar at last, and her lips trembled while he
looked her over critically.  She was a grubby little urchin, a burden
upon them, but somehow a fondness for her had crept in upon him.

He could not help but admire her spirit and her courage.  Suddenly he
found himself wondering if there was no other way than abandoning the
child and it took an effort to thrust the idea aside and steel himself
to what must be done.

Come on then.  He took her hand and turned to Manfred.

You wait here with Henny.  Please let me come with you, Pa, Manfred
begged.  Just as far as the gate.  just to say goodbye to Sarah-, Lothar
wavered and then agreed gruffly.  All right, but keep your mouth shut
and remember your manners.  He led them down the narrow sanitary lane at
the rear of the row of cottages until they came to the back gate of a
larger house beside the church and obviously attached to it.

There was no mistaking that it was the pastory.  There was a light
burning in the back room, the fierce white light of a Petromax lamp, and
the bugs and moths were drumming against the wire screening that covered
the back door.

The sound of voices raised in a dolorous religious chant carried to them
as they opened the gate and went up the kitchen path.  When they reached
the screen door they could see in the lighted kitchen beyond a family
seated at a long deal table, singing together.

Lothar knocked on the door and the hymn trailed away.

From the head of the table a man rose and came towards the door. He was
dressed in a black suit that bagged at the knees and elbows but was
stretched tightly across his broad shoulders.  His hair was thick and
long, hanging in a greying mane to his shoulders and sprinkling the dark
cloth with a flurry of dandruff.

Who is it?  he demanded, in a voice trained to boom out from the pulpit.
He flung open the screen door and peered out into the dark. He had a
broad intelligent forehead with the arrowhead of a sharp widow's peak
emphasizing its depth, and his eyes were deep-set and fierce as those of
a prophet from the Old Testament.

You!  He recognized Lothar, but made no attempt to greet him further.
instead he looked back over his shoulder.

'Mevrou, it is your godless cousin come in from the Wilderness like
Cain!  The fair-headed woman rose from the foot of the table, hushing
the children and signalling them to remain in their seats.  She was
almost as tall as her husband, in her forties and well fleshed, with a
rosy complexion and braids piled on top of her head in the Germanic
fashion.  She folded her thick creamy-skinned arms across her bulky
shapeless bosom.

What do you want with us, Lothar De La Rey?  she demanded.  This is the
God-fearing home of Christian folk; We want nothing of your wanton ways
and wild behaviour.  She broke off as she noticed the children and
stared at them with interest.

Hello, Trudi.  Lothar drew Sarah forward into the light.

It has been many years.  You look well and happy., I am happy in God's
love, his cousin agreed.  But you know I have seldom been well. She
assumed an expression of suffering and Lothar went on quickly.

I am giving you another chance of Christian service.  He pushed Sarah
forward.  This poor little orphan, she is alone.

She needs a home.  You could take her in, Trudi, and God will love you
for it.  Is it another of your, His cousin glanced back into the kitchen
at the interested faces of her own two daughters, and then lowered her
voice and hissed at him, Another of your bastards?  Her family died in
the typhoid epidemic.  It was a mistake.  He saw her recoil from the
girl.  That was weeks ago.  She is free of the disease.  Trudi relaxed a
little and Lothar went on quickly.  I cannot care for her.  We are
travelling, and she needs a woman.  We have too many mouths already, she
began, but her husband interrupted her.

Come here, child, he boomed and Lothar shoved Sarah towards him. 'What
is your name?  Sarah Bester, Oom.  So you are of the Volk? the tall
dominie demanded.  One of the true Afrikaner blood?  Sarah nodded
uncertainly.

And your dead mother and father were wed in the Reformed Church?  She
nodded again.  And you believe in the Lord God of Israel?  Yes, Oom.  My
mother taught me, Sarah whispered.

Then we cannot turn the child away, he told his wife.

Bring her in, woman.  God will provide.  God always provides for his
chosen people.  Trudi Bierman sighed theatrically and reached for
Sarah's arm.  So thin, and filthy as a Nama piccaninny.  And you, Lothar
De La Rey, the dominie pointed a finger at him.  Has not the merciful
Lord yet shown you the error of your ways, and placed your feet on the
path of righteousness?  Not yet, dear cousin.  Lothar backed away from
the door, his relief undisguised.

The dominie's attention flicked to the boy standing in the shadows
behind Lothar.  Who is this?  ,My son, Manfred.  Lothar placed a
protective arm over the boy's shoulder, and the dominie came closer and
stooped to study his face closely.  His great dark beard bristled and
his eyes were wild and fanatical, but Manfred stared directly into them,
and saw them change.  They warmed and lightened with the sparkle of good
humour and compassion.

Do I frighten you, Jong?  His voice mellowed, and Manfred shook his
head.

No, Oomie, or not too much anyway.  The dominie chuckled.  Who teaches
you your Bible, Jong?  He used the expression meaning young or young
man.

My father, Oom.  Then God have mercy on your soul.  He stood up and
thrust his beard out at Lothar.

I would you had left the boy, rather than the girl, he told

him, and Lothar tightened his grip on Manfred's shoulder.  He is a
likely looking lad, and we need good men in the service of God and the
Volk. He is well taken care of.  Lothar could not conceal his agitation,
but the dominie dropped his compelling gaze back to Manfred.

I think, Jong, that you and I are destined by Almighty God to meet
again.  When your father drowns or is eaten by a lion or hanged by the
English, or in some other fashion punished by the Lord God of Israel,
then come back here.

Do you hear me, Jong?  I need you, the Volk need you, and God needs you!
My name is Tromp Bierman, the Trumpet of the Lord.  Come back to this
house!  Manfred nodded.  I will come back to see Sarah. I promised her.
As he said it the girl's courage broke and she sobbed and tried to pull
free from Trudi's grip.

Stop that, child.  Trudi Bierman shook her irritably.  Stop blubbering.
Sarah gulped and swallowed the next sob.

Lothar turned Manfred away from the door.  The child is hard-working and
willing, cousin.  You will not regret this charity, he called over his
shoulder.

That we shall see, his cousin muttered dubiously, and Lothar started
back down the path.

Remember the Lord's word, Lothar De La Rey, the Thimpet of the Lord
bugled after them.  I am the Way and the Light.  Whosoever believeth in
me- Manfred twisted in his father's grip and looked back.

The tall gaunt figure of the dominie almost filled the kitchen doorway,
but at the level of his waist Sarah's small face peered around him, in
the light of the Petromax it was white as bone china and glistened with
her tears.

Four men were waiting for them at the rendezvous.  During the desperate
years when they had fought together in guerilla commando, it had been
necessary for every man to know the reassembly points.  When cut up and
separated in the running battles against the Union troops, they had
scattered away into the veld and days later come together at one of the
safe places.

There was always water at these assembly points, a seep in the rocky
crevice of a hillside, a Bushman well or a dry riverbed where they could
dig for the precious stuff.  The assembly points were always sited with
an all-round view so that a following enemy could never take them by
surprise.

In addition, there was always grazing nearby for the horses and shelter
for the men, and they had laid down caches of supplies at these places.

The rendezvous that Lothar had chosen for this meeting had an additional
advantage.  It was in the hills only a few miles north of the homestead
of a prosperous German cattle-rancher, a good friend of Lothar's family,
a sympathizer who could be relied upon to tolerate their presence on his
lands.

Lothar entered the hills along the dried watercourse that twisted
through them like a maimed puffadder.  He walked in the open so that the
waiting men could see him from afar, and they were still two miles from
the rendezvous when a tiny figure appeared on the rocky crest ahead of
them, wind-milling his arms in welcome.  He was quickly joined by the
other three and then they came running down the rough hillside to meet
Lothar's party in the river-bed.

Leading them was Vark Jan', or Pig John', the old Khoisan warrior with
his yellow wrinkled features that bespoke his mixed lineage of Nama and
Berg-dama and, so he boasted, of even the true Bushman.  Allegedly, his
grandmother had been a Bushman slave captured by the Boers in one of the
last great slave raids of the previous century.  But then he was a
famous har and opinion was divided as to the truth of this claim.  He
was followed closely by Klein Boy, Swart Hendrick's bastard son by a
Herero mother.

He came directly to his father and greeted him with the traditional
deferential clapping of hands.  He was as tall and as powerfully built
as Hendrick himself, but with the finer features and slanted eyes of his
mother, and his skin was not as dark.  Like wild honey it changed colour
as the sunlight played upon it.  These two had worked on the trawlers at
Walvis Bay, and Hendrick had sent them ahead to find the other men they
needed and bring them to the rendezvous.

Lothar turned to these men now.  It was twelve years since last he had
seen them.  He remembered them as wild fighting men, his hunting dogs,
he had called them with affection and total lack of trust.  For like
wild dogs they would have turned and savaged him at the first sign of
weakness.

Now he greeted them by their old noms de guerre.  Legs', the Ovambo with
legs like a stork and Buffalo', who carried his head hunched on his
thick neck like that animal.  They clasped hands, then wrists and then
hands again in the ritual greeting of the band reserved for special
occasions, as after long separation or a successful foray, and Lothar
studied them and saw how twelve years and easy living had altered them.
They were fat and soft and middle-aged but, he consoled himself, the
tasks he had for them were not demanding.

So!  He grinned at them.  We have pulled you off the fat bellies of your
wives, and away from your beer-pots.  And they roared with laughter.

We came the same minute that Klein Boy and Pig John spoke your name to
us, they assured him.

Of course, you came only because of the love and loyalty you bear me,
Lothar's sarcasm was biting, the way the vulture and the jackal come for
love of the dead, not of the feast.  They roared again.  How they had
missed the whip of his tongue.

Pig John did mention gold, the Buffalo admitted, between sobs of
laughter.  And Klein Boy whispered that there might be fighting again.
It is sad, but a man of my age can pleasure his wives only once or twice
a day, but he can fight and enjoy old companions and plunder day and
night without end, and the loyalty we bear you is wide as the Kalahari,
Stork Legs said, and they hooted with laughter and beat each other upon
the back.

Still rumbling with occasional laughter, the group left the riverbed and
climbed up to the old rendezvous point.  It was a low overhanging shelf
of rock, the roof blackened with the soot of countless campfires and the
rear wall decorated with the ochre-coloured designs and drawings of the
little yellow Bushmen who, before them, had used this shelter down the
ages.  From the entrance of the shelter there was a sweeping view out
across the shimmering plains.  It would be almost impossible to approach
the hilltop undetected.

The four first-corners had already opened the cache.  It had been hidden
in a cleft of rock further down the side of the hill, and the entrance
closed with boulders and plastered over with clay from the riverbank.
The contents had survived the years better than Lothar had expected.  Of
course, the canned food and the ammunition cases had all been sealed,
while the Mauser rifles were packed in thick yellow grease and wrapped
in grease-paper.  They were in perfect condition.  Even most of the
spare saddlery and clothing had been preserved by the desert's dry air.

They feasted on fried bully beef and toasted ship's biscuit, food they
had once hated for its monotony but now was delicious and evocative of
countless other meals, back in those desperate days rendered attractive
by the passage of the years.

After they had eaten they picked over the saddlery and boots and
clothing, rejecting those items damaged by insects and rodents or dried
out like parchment, cannibalizing and re-stitching and polishing with
dubbin until they had equipment and arms for all of them.

While they worked Lothar considered that there were dozens of these
caches, scattered through the wilderness, while in the north at the
secret coastal base from which he had refuelled and re-equipped the
German U-boats there must still be thousands of pounds worth of stores.
Until now it had never occurred to him to raid them for his own
account,, somehow they had always been in patriotic trust.

He felt the prickle of temptation: Perhaps if I chartered a boat at
Walvis and sailed up the coast, But then with a sudden chill he
remembered that he would never see Walvis Bay or this land again.  There
would be no return after they had done what they were setting out to do.

He jumped to his feet and strode to the entrance of the rock shelter. As
he stared out across the dun and heat-shot plain with its dotted
camel-thorn trees, he felt a premonition of terrible suffering and
unhappiness.

Could I ever be happy elsewhere?  he wondered.  Away from this harsh and
beautiful land?  His resolve wavered.  He turned and saw Manfred
watching him with a troubled frown.  Can I make this decision for my
son?  He stared back at the boy.  Can I condemn him to the life of an
exile?  He thrust the doubts aside with an effort, shaking them

off with a shudder like a horse driving the stinging flies from its
hide, and called Manfred to him.  He led him away from the shelter, and
when they were out of earshot of the others told him what lay ahead of
them, speaking to him as an equal.

All we have worked for has been stolen from us, Manie, not in the sight
of the law but in the sight of God and natural justice.  The Bible gives
us redress against those who have deceived or cheated us, an eye for an
eye, a tooth for a tooth.  We will take back what has been stolen from
us.

But, Manie, the English law will look upon us as criminals.

We will have to fly, to run and hide, and they will hunt us like wild
animals.  We will survive only by our courage and our wits. Manfred
stiffed eagerly, watching his father's face with bright eager eyes.  it
all sounded romantic and exciting and he was proud of his father's trust
in discussing such adult matters with him.

We will go north.  There is good farming land in Tanganyika and
Nyasaland and Kenya.  Many of our own Volk have already gone there.  Of
course, we will have to change our name, and we can never return here,
but we will make a fine new life in a new land.  Never come back?
Manfred's expression changed.  But what about Sarah?  Lothar ignored the
question.  Perhaps we will buy a beautiful coffee shamba in Nyasaland or
on the lower slopes of Kilimanjaro.  There are still great herds of wild
game upon the plains of Serengeti, and we will hunt and farm., Manfred
listened dutifully but his expression had dulled.

How could he say it?  How could he tell his father: Pa!  I don't want to
go to a strange land.  I want to stay here.  ?

He lay awake long after the others were snoring and the camp-fire had
burned down to a red smear of embers, and he thought about Sarah,
remembering the pale pixie face smeared with tears and the hot thin
little body under the blanket beside him: She is the only friend I've
ever had.  He was jerked back to reality by a strange and disturbing
sound.  It came from the plain below them but it seemed that distance
could not take the fierce edge from the din.

His father coughed softly and sat up, letting his blanket fall to his
waist.  The awful sound came again, rising to an impossible crescendo
and then dying away in a series of deep grunts, the death rattle of a
strangling monster.

What is it, Pa?  The hair at the back of Manfred's neck had risen and
prickled as though to the touch of a nettle.

They say even the bravest of men is afraid the first time he hears that
sound, his father told him softly.  That is the hunting roar of a hungry
Kalahari lion, my son.  In the dawn when they climbed down the hillside
and reached the plain, Lothar, who was leading, stopped abruptly and
beckoned Manfred to his side.

You have heard his voice, now here is the track of his feet.  He stooped
and touched one of the pad marks, the size of a dinner plate, that was
pressed deeply into the soft yellow earth.

An old maanhaar, a solitary, old, maned male.  Lothar traced the outline
of the spoor.  Manfred would see him do that often in the months ahead,
always touching the sign as though to draw out its secrets through his
fingertips.  See how his pads are worn smooth, and how he walks with his
weight back towards his ankles.  He favours his right fore, a cripple.
He will find a meal hard to take, perhaps that is why he keeps close to
the ranch.  Cattle are easier to kill than wild game.  Lothar reached
out and plucked something from the lowest branch of thorns.  Here,
Manie, he placed a small tuft of coarse red-gold hair in Manfred's palm.
There is a tress of his mane he left for you.  Then he stood up and
stepped over the spoor.  He led them on down into the broad saucer of
land, watered by a string of natural artesian springs, where the grass
grew thick and green and high as their knees, and they passed the first
herds of cattle, humpbacked and with dewlaps that almost brushed the
earth, their coats shiny in the early sunlight.

The homestead of the ranch stood on the higher ground beyond the wells,
in a plantation of exotic date palms imported from Egypt.  It was an old
colonial German fort, a legacy from the Herero war of 1904 when the
whole territory had erupted in rebellion against the excesses of German
colonization.  Even the Bondel swarts and Namas had joined the Herero
tribe and it had taken 20,000 white troops and an expenditure of Y,60
million to quell the rebellion.  Added to the cost, in the final
accounting, were the 2,500 German officers and men killed and the 70,000
men, women and children of the Herero people shot, burned and starved to
death.  This casualty list constituted almost precisely seventy percent
of the entire tribe.

The homestead had originally been a frontier fort, built to hold off the
Herero regiments.  Its thick whitewashed outer walls were crenellated
and even the central tower was furnished with battlements and a
flagstaff upon which the German imperial eagle still defiantly flew.

The count saw them from afar, coming down the dusty road past the
springs, and sent out a trap to bring them in.

He was of Lothar's mother's generation, but still tall and lean and
straight.  A white duelling scar puckered the corner of his mouth and
his manners were old-fashioned and formal.  He sent Swart Hendrick to
quarters in the servants wing and then led Lothar and Manfred through to
the cool dark central hall where the countess had black bottles of good
German beer and jugs of homemade ginger beer already set out for them.

Their clothes were whisked away by the servants while they bathed, and
were returned within an hour, laundered and ironed, their boots polished
until they gleamed.  For dinner there was a baron of tender beef from
the estate, running with its own fragrant juices, and marvelous Rhine
wines to wash it down.  To Manfred's unqualified delight, this was
followed by a dozen various tarts and puddings and trifles, while for
Lothar the greater treat was the civilized discourse of his host and
hostess.  It was a deep pleasure to discuss books and music, and to
listen to the precise and beautifully enunciated German of his hosts.

When Manfred could eat not another spoonful, and had to use both hands
to cover his yawns, one of the Herero serving maids led him away to his
room, and the count poured schnapps for Lothar and brought a box of
Havanas for his approval while his wife fussed over the silver coffee
pot.

When his cigar was drawing evenly the count told Lothar: I received the
letter you sent me from Windhoek, and I was most distressed to hear of
your misfortune.  Times are very difficult for all of us.  He polished
his monocle upon his sleeve before screwing it back into his eye and
focusing it upon Lothar again.  Your sainted mother was a fine lady.

There is nothing that I would not do for her son.  He paused and drew
upon the Havana, smiled thinly at the flavour and then said, 'However
Lothar's spirits dropped at that word, always the harbinger of denial
and disappointment.

However, not two weeks before I received your letter the purchasing
officer for the army remount department came out to the ranch and I sold
him all our excess animals.  I have retained only sufficient for our own
needs.  Though Lothar had seen at least forty fine horses in the herd
grazing on the young pasture that grew around the ranch, he merely
nodded in understanding.

Of course, I have a pair of excellent mules, big, strong beasts, that I
could let you have at a nominal price, say fifty pounds.  The pair?
Lothar asked deferentially.

Each, said the count firmly.  As to the other suggestion in you r
letter, I make it a firm rule never to lend money to a friend.  That way
one avoids losing both friend and money.  Lothar let that slide by, and
instead returned to the count's earlier remarks.  The army remount
officer, he has been buying horses from all the estates in the district!
I understand he has purchased almost a hundred.  The count showed relief
at Lothar's gentlemanly acceptance of his refusal.  All excellent
animals.  He was interested only in the best, desert-hardened and salted
against the horse-sickness.  And he has shipped them south on the
railway, I expect!  Not yet, the count shook his head.  or he had not
done so when last I heard.  He is holding them on the pool of the Swakop
river on the far side of the town, resting them and letting them build
up their strength for the rail journey.  I heard that he plans to send
them down the line when he has a hundred and fifty altogether.  They
left the fort the following morning after a gargantuan breakfast of
sausage and prepared meats and eggs, all three of them riding up on the
broad back of the grey mule for which Lothar had finally paid twenty
pounds with the head halter thrown in to sweeten the bargain.

How were the servants quarters at the fort?  Lothar asked.

Slave quarters, not servants quarters, Hendrick corrected him. 'in them
a man could starve to death or, from what I heard, be flogged to death
by the count.  Hendrick sighed.

If it had not been for the generosity and good nature of the youngest of
the Hereto maids, Lothar nudged him sharply in the ribs and shot a
warning glance towards Manfred, and Hendrick went on smoothly.

So do we all escape on one sway-backed ancient mule, he observed.

They will never catch us on this gazelle-swift creature.  He slapped the
fat rump and the mule maintained its easy swaying gait, its hooves
plopping in the dust.

We are going to use him for hunting, Lothar told him, and grinned at
Hendrick's perplexed frown.

Back at the rock shelter, Lothar worked quickly, making up twelve
pack-saddles of ammunition, food and equipment.

When they were lashed and loaded, he laid them out at the entrance of
the shelter.

Well, Hendrick grinned.  We've got the saddles.  All we need are the
horses.  We should leave a guard here.  Lothar ignored him, But we'll
need every man with us.  He gave the money to Pig John, the least
untrustworthy of the gang.

Five pounds is enough to buy a bathtub full of Cape Smoke, he pointed
out, and a glassful of it will kill a bull buffalo.  But remember this,
Pig John, if you are too drunk to stay in the saddle when we ride, I'll
not leave you for the police to question.  I'll leave you with a bullet
in the head.  I give you my oath on it.  Pig John tucked the banknote
into the sweatband of his slouch hat.  Not a drop of it will touch my
lips, he whined ingratiatingly.  The baas knows he can trust me with
liquor and women and money.  It was almost twenty miles back to the town
of Okahandja and Pig John set out immediately to be there well in
advance of Lothar's arrival.  The rest of the party, with Manfred
leading the mule, climbed down the hillside.

There had been no wind since the previous day, so the lion's tracks were
still clearly etched and uneroded, even in that loose soil.

The hunters, all armed with the new Mausers, and with bandoliers of
ammunition belted over their shoulders, spread out in a fan across the
lion spoor and went away at a trot.

Manfred had been warned by his father to keep well back, and with the
memories of the beast's wild roarings still in his ears, was pleased to
amble along at the mule's slow plod.

The hunters were out of sight ahead, but they had marked their trail for
him with broken branches and blazes on the trunks of the camel-Thorn
trees so he had no difficulty following.

Within an hour they found the spot at which the old red torn had killed
one of the count's heifers.  He had stayed on the carcass until he had
consumed everything but the head and hooves and larger bones. But even
from these he had licked the flesh as proof of his hunger and restricted
hunting prowess.

Quickly Lothar and Hendrick cast forward in a circle around the trampled
area of the kill and almost immediately cut the outgoing spoor.

He left not more than a few hours ago, Lothar estimated, and then as one
of the grass stalks trodden down by the big cat's paws, slowly rose and
straightened of its own accord, he amended his guess.  Less than half an
hour, he might have heard us coming up.  No.  Hendrick touched the spoor
with the long peeled twig he carried.  He has gone on at a walk.  He
isn't worried, he hasn't heard us.  He is full of meat and will go now
to the nearest water.  He's going south.  Lothar squinted against the
sun to check the run of the spoor.  Probably heading for the river and
that will take him closer to the town, which suits us very well.  He
reslung the Mauser on his shoulder and signalled his men to stay in
extended order.  They went on up the low rise of a consolidated dune and
before they reached the top the lion broke, flushing from the cover of a
low clump of scrub directly ahead of them, and went away from them
across the open ground at an extended catlike run.  But his belly,
gorged with meat, swung weightily at each stride as though he were
heavily pregnant.

It was long range, but the Mausers whip-cracked all along the line as
they opened up on the running beast.  Dust spurted wide and beyond him.
All Lothar's men except Hendrick were appalling marksmen.  He could
never convince them that the speed of the bullet was not directly
proportional to the force with which one pulled the trigger, or break
them of the habit of tightly closing their eyes as they ejected the
bullet from the barrel with all their strength.

Lothar saw his own first shot kick dust from beneath the lion's belly.
He had misjudged the range, always a problem over open desert terrain.
He worked the bolt of the Mauser without taking the butt from his
shoulder and lifted his aim until the pip of the foresight rode just
above the beast's shaggy flowing red mane.

The lion checked to the next shot, breaking his stride, swinging his
great head around to snap at his flank where it had stung him, and the
sound of the jacketed bullet slapping into his flesh carried clearly to
the line of hunters.  Then the bon flattened once more into his gallop,
ears back, growling with pain and outrage as he vanished over the rise.

He won't go far!  Hendrick waved the line of hunters forward.

The lion is a sprinter.  He can only maintain that blazing gallop over a
very short distance before he is forced back into a trot.  If you press
him further, he will usually turn and come back at you.

Lothar, Hendrick and Klein Boy, the strongest and fittest of them,
pulled ahead of the line.

Blood!  Hendrick shouted as they reached the spot where the lion had
taken Lothar's bullet.  Lung blood!  The splashes of crimson were frothy
with the wind of the ruptured lungs.

They raced along the bloody spoor.

Pasop!  Lothar called as they reached the rise over which the beast had
disappeared.  Look out!  He'll be lying in wait for us, And at the
warning the lion charged back at them.

He had been lying in a patch of sansevieria just beyond the crest,
flattened against the earth with his ears laid back upon his skull. But
the moment Lothar led them over the crest, he launched himself at him
from a distance of only fifty feet.

The lion kept low to the ground, with his ears still back so that his
forehead was flat and broad as that of an adder and his eyes were a
bright implacable yellow.  His gingery red mane was fully erect,
increasing his bulk until he appeared monstrous, and such a blast of
sound came out of those gaping fang-lined jaws that Lothar flinched and
was an instant slow on the shot.  As the butt of the Mauser touched his
shoulder, the lion rose from the ground in front of him, filling all his
vision and the blood from his torn lungs blew in a pink cloud and
spattered into Lothar's face.

His instinct was to fire as swiftly as possible into the enormous shaggy
bulk of the lion as it towered over him on its hind-legs, but he forced
himself to shift his aim.  A shot in the chest or neck would not stop
the beast from killing him, the Mauser bullet was light, designed for
men not great game, and that first bullet would have desensitized the
lion's nervous system and flooded his system with adrenaline The brain
shot was the only one which would stop him at such close quarters.

Lothar shot him on the point of his muzzle, between the flared pink pits
of his nostrils, and the bullet tore up between the cat's eyes, through
the butter-yellow brain in its bony casket and out through the back of
his skull, but still the lion was driven on by the momentum of its
charge.  The huge muscular body slammed into Lothar's chest, and the
rifle cartwheeled from his hands as he was hurled backwards to hit the
earth with his shoulder and the side of his head.

Hendrick dragged him into a sitting position and wiped the sand from his
mouth and nostrils with his bare hands, and then the alarm faded from
his eyes and he grinned as Lothar struck his hands away weakly.

You are getting old and slow, Baas, Hendrick laughed.

Get me up before Manie sees me, Lothar ordered him, and Hendrick put a
shoulder under him and hoisted him.

He swayed on his feet, leaning heavily on Hendrick, holding the side of
his head where it had struck but already he was giving orders.

Klein Boy!  Legs!  Go back and hold the mule before it smells the lion
and bolts with Manie!  He pulled away from Hendrick and crossed
unsteadily to the lion's carcass.  It lay on its side and already the
flies were gathering on the shattered head.  We'll need every man and a
bit of luck to get him loaded.  Even though the cat was old and lean and
out of condition, scarred by years of hunting in thorn veld and his coat
dull and shaggy, yet his belly was crammed with beef and he would weigh
four hundred pounds or more.  Lothar picked his rifle out of the sand
and wiped it down carefully, then he propped it against the carcass and
hurried back over the ridge, still limping from the fall and massaging
his neck and temple.

The mule with Manfred perched on his back was coming towards him, and
Lothar broke into a run.

Did you get him, Pa?  Manfred yelled excitedly.  He had heard the
firing.

Yes.  Lothar yanked him down from the mule's back.  He's lying just
beyond the rise.  Lothar checked the mule's head halter.  It was new and
strong, but he clipped an extra length of rope on to the iron chin ring
and put two men on each rope.  Then carefully he blindfolded the mule
with a strip of canvas.

All right.  Let's see how he takes it.  The men on the head halter
dragged on it with their concerted weight, but the mule dug in his
hooves, mutinying against the blindfold, and would not budge.

Lothar went round behind him, taking care to keep out of the way of his
back hooves, and twisted the mule's tail.

Still the animal stood like a rock.  Lothar leaned over and bit him at
the root of the tail, sinking his teeth into the soft tender skin, and
the mule let fly with both back hooves in a head-high kick.

Lothar bit him again, and he capitulated and trotted forward towards the
ridge, but as he reached it the light breeze shifted and the mule filled
both nostrils with the fresh hot smell of lion.

The scent of lion has a remarkable effect on all other animals, domestic
or wild, even on exotics from an environment where it is impossible that
either they or even their remote ancestors could possibly ever have had
contact with a lion.

Lothar's father had always selected his hunting dogs by offering the
litter of puppies a green wet lion skin to sniff.

Most of the pups would howl with terror and stumble away with their
tails tucked up between their hind legs.  A very few pups, not more than
one in twenty, nearly always bitches would stand, albeit with every hair
on their bodies erect and small growls shaking them from tail to tip of
quivering nostrils.  These were the dogs he kept.

Now the mule smelt the lion and went berserk.  The men on the head ropes
were hauled off their feet as it reared and whinnied, and Lothar ducked
out from under its lashing hooves.  Then it burst into a ponderous
gallop and dragged the four handlers, stumbling and falling and
shouting, half a mile over thorn scrub and through deep waterworn
dongas, before at last it stopped in a cloud of its own dust, sweating
and trembling, its flanks heaving with terror.

They dragged him back again, the blindfold firmly in place, but the
moment he smelled the carcass again the entire performance was repeated,
though this time he only managed a gallop of a few hundred yards before
exhaustion and the weight of four men brought him up short.

Twice more they led him back to the dead lion and twice more he bolted,
each time for a shorter distance, but finally he stood, trembling in all
four legs, and sweating with terror and fatigue as they lifted the
carcass onto his back and tried to lash the lion's paws under his chest.
That was too much.

Another copious flood of nervous sweat drenched the mule's body, and he
reared and bucked and kicked until the carcass slid off his back in a
heap.

They wore him down, and after an hour of struggling, the mule stood at
last, shaking piteously and blowing like a blacksmith's bellows, but
with the dead lion securely lashed upon his back.

When Lothar took the lead rope and tugged upon it, the mule stumbled
along meekly behind him, following him down towards the bend in the
river.

From the top of one of the low wooded koppies Lothar looked down across
the Swakop river to the roofs and the church spire of the village
beyond.  The Swakop made a wide bend, and in the elbow directly below
there were three small green pools hemmed in with yellow sandbanks.  The
river flowed only in the rieperioer rain.

They were watering the horses at the pools, bringing them down from the
stockades of thorn branches on the bank to drink before closing them in
for the night.  The count had been right, the army buyers had chosen the
best.  Lothar watched them avariciously through his binoculars.  Desert
bred, they were powerful animals, full of vigour as they frolicked and
milled at the edge of the pool or rolled in the sand with their legs
kicking in the air.

Lothar switched his attention to the drovers, and counted five of them,
all coloured troopers in casual khaki uniform, and he looked for white
officers in vain.

They could be in camp, he muttered and focused the glasses on the
cluster of brown army tents beyond the horse stockades.

There was a low whistle from behind him, and when he looked over his
shoulder, Hendrick was signalling from the foot of the kopje. Lothar
slid off the skyline and then scrambled down the slope.  The mule, his
blood-soaked burden still on his back, was tethered in the shade.  He
had become almost resigned to it, though every now and again he gave a
spontaneous shudder and shifted his weight nervously.  The men were
lying under the sparse branches of the thorn trees, eating bully out of
the cans and Pig John stood up as Lothar reached him.

You are late, Lothar accused him, and seizing the front of his leather
vest he pulled him close and sniffed his breath.

Not a drop, Master, Pig John whined.  I swear on my sister's virginity.
That is a mythical beast.  Lothar released him, and glanced down at the
sack at Pig John's feet.

TWelve bottles.  just like you said.  Lothar opened the sack and took
out a bottle of the notorious Cape Smoke.  The neck was sealed with wax
and the brandy was a dark poisonous brown when he held it to the light.

What did you find out in the village?  He returned the bottle to the
sack.

There are seven horse handlers at the camp I counted five. 'Seven.  Pig
John was definite and Lothar grunted.

What about the white officers?  They rode out towards Otjiwaronga
yesterday, to buy more horses.  It will be dark in an hour.  Lothar
glanced at the sun.

Take the sack and go to the camp.  What shall I tell them? 'Tell them
you are selling, cheap, and then give them a free taste. You are a
famous har, tell them anything.  What if they don't drink? Lothar
laughed at the improbability but didn't bother to answer.  I will move
after moonrise, when it clears the treetops.  That will give you and
your brandy four hours to soften them up.  The sack clinked as Pig John
slung it over his shoulder.

Remember, Pig John, I want you sober or I'll have you dead, and I mean
it.  Does Master think I am some kind of animal, that I can't take a
drink like a gentleman?  Pig John demanded and drawing himself up
marched out of the camp with affronted dignity.

From his look-out Lothar watched Pig John cross the dry sandbanks of the
Swakop and trudge up the far side under his sack.  At the stockade the
guard challenged him and Lothar watched through the glasses as they
talked, until at last the coloured trooper set his carbine aside and
peered into the neck of the sack that Pig John held open for him.

Even at that distance and in the deepening dusk, Lothar saw the flash of
the guard's white teeth as he grinned with delight and turned to call
his companions from the tented encampment.  Two of them came out in
their underclothes, and a long heated discussion ensued with a great
deal of gesticulation and shoulder slapping and head shaking, until Pig
John cracked the wax seal on one of the bottles and handed it to them.
The bottle passed quickly from one to the other, and each of them
pointed the base briefly at the sky like a bugler sounding the charge
and then gasped and grinned through watering eyes.  Finally, Pig John
was led like an honoured guest into the encampment, lugging his sack,
and disappeared from Lothar's view.

The sun set and night fell and Lothar remained on the ridge.  Like a
yachtsman he was intensely aware of the strength and direction of the
night breeze as it switched erratically.  An hour after dark it settled
down into a steady warm stream on the back of Lothar's neck.

Let it hold, Lothar murmured, and then whistled softly, the cry of a
scops owlet.  Hendrick came almost at once and Lothar indicated the
wind.

Cross the river well upstream and circle out beyond the camp. Not too
close.  Then turn back and keep the wind in your face.  At that moment
there was a faint shout from across the river and they both looked up.
The camp-fire in front of the tents had been built up until the flames
roared high enough to lick the under branches of the camel-thorn trees
and silhouetted against them were the dark figures of the coloured
troopers.

what the hell do you think they are doing?  Lothar wondered. 'Dancing or
fighting?  By now they don't know themselves, Hendrick chuckled.

They were reeling around the fire, colliding and clinging together, then
separating, collapsing in the dust and crawling on their knees, or with
enormous effort heaving themselves to their feet only to stand swaying
with legs braced apart and then collapse again.  One of them was
stripped naked, his thin yellow body gleaming with sweat as he
pirouetted wildly and then fell into the fire, to be dragged out by the
heels by a pair of his companions, all three of them screeching with
laughter.

Time for you to go.  Lothar slapped Hendrick's shoulder.

Take Manie with you and let him be your horse holder.  Hendrick started
back down the slope but paused as Lothar A called softly after him,
Manie is in your charge.  You'll answer for him with your own life.
Hendrick did not reply but disappeared into the night.

Half an hour later Lothar glimpsed them crossing the pale sandbanks of
the river, a dark shapeless movement in the starlight, and then they
were gone into the scrub beyond.

The horizon lightened and the stars in the east paled before the rising
moon, but in the camp across the river the drunken gyrations of the
troopers had now descended into swinish inertia.  Through the glasses
Lothar could make Out bodies, scattered haphazard like casualties on the
battlefield, and one of them looked very much like Pig John, although
Lothar couldn't be certain for he lay face down in the shadow on the far
side of the fire.

If it's him, he's a dead man, Lothar promised and stood up.  It was time
to move at last, for the moon was clear of the horizon, horned and
glowing like a horseshoe from the blacksmith's forge.

Lothar picked his way down the slope, and the mule snorted and blew
through his nostrils, still standing miserably under his dreadful
burden.

Almost over now.  Lothar stroked his forehead.  You've done well, old
fellow.  He loosed the head halter, adjusted the Mauser slung over his
shoulder and led the mule around the side of the kopje and down the bank
to the river.

There was no question of a stealthy approach, not with that great pale
animal and his swaying load.  Lothar unslung the rifle and rimmed a
cartridge into the breech as they plodded through the sand of the
riverbed and he watched the line of trees on the bank ahead, even though
he expected no challenge.

The camp-fire had died down, and there was complete silence until they
climbed the bank and Lothar heard the stamp of a hoof and the soft
fluttering breath of one of the animals in the stockade ahead.  The
breeze was behind Lothar, steady still, and suddenly there was a shrill
unhappy whinny.

That's it, get a good whiff of it.  Lothar led the mule towards the
stockade.

Now there was the trample of hooves and the sound of restless animals as
they began to mill and jostle one another.

Alarm transmitted by the rank smell of the bleeding lion carcass was
spreading infectiously through the herd.  A horse whinnied in terror,
and immediately others reared in panic.

Lothar could see their heads above the thorn-bush wall of the stockade,
manes flying in the moonlight, front hooves lashing out wildly.

Against the windward wall of the stockade Lothar held the mule, and then
cut the rope that held the lion to its back.  The carcass slid over and
hit the ground, the wind from its lungs was driven up the dead throat
with a low belching roar and the animals on the far side of the brush
wall surged and screamed and began to swirl around the stockade in a
living whirlpool of horse-flesh.

Lothar stooped and split the lion's belly from the crotch of the back
legs to the sternum of the ribs, driving his blade deeply so that it
slashed through the bladder and guts, and instantly the stench was thick
and rank.

The horse herd was in chaos.  He could hear them crashing into the far
wall of the stockade as they attempted to escape from the awful scent.
Lothar lifted the rifle to his shoulder, aiming only feet over the
maddened horses, and emptied the magazine.  The shots crashed out in
quick succession, the muzzle-flashes lighting the stockade, and the herd
in terrified concert burst through the wall of the stockade, pouring
through it in a dark river, their manes tossing like foam as they
galloped away into the night, heading downwind to where Hendrick waited
with his men.

Hurriedly Lothar tethered the mule, and reloading the rifle as he ran,
headed for the dying camp-fire.  One of the troopers, aroused by the
escaping horses even from his drunken stupor, was on his feet,
staggering determinedly towards the stockade.

The horses, he was screaming.  Come on you drunken thunders!  We have to
stop the horses!  He saw Lothar.  Help me!  The horses, Lothar lifted
the butt of the Mauser under his chin.  The trooper's teeth clicked
together and he sat down in the sand and then slowly toppled over
backwards again.  Lothar stepped over him and ran forward.

Pig John!  he called urgently.  Where are you?  There was no reply and
he went past the fire to the inert figure he had seen from the lookout.
He rolled it over with his foot, and Pig John looked up at the moon with
sightless eyes and a tranquil smile on his wrinkled yellow face.

Up!  Lothar kicked him with a full swing of the boot.  Pig John's smile
did not waver.  He was far past any pain.  All right, I warned you!
Lothar worked the Mauser's bolt and flicked over the safety-catch with
his thumb.  He put the muzzle of the rifle to Pig John's head.  If he
was handed over to the police alive it would take only a few strokes of
the hippo-hide sjambok whip to get Pig John talking.  Though he did not
know the full details of the plan, he knew enough to ruin their chances
and to put Lothar on the wanted list for horse-theft and the destruction
of army property.  He took up the slack in the trigger of the Mauser.

It's too good for him, he thought grimly.  He should be flogged to
death.  But his finger relaxed, and he swore at himself for his own
foolishness as he flipped the safety-catch and ran back to fetch the
mule.

Even though Pig John was a skinny little man, it took all of Lothar's
strength to swing his relaxed rubbery body over the mule's back.  He
hung there like a piece of laundry on the drying line, arms and legs
dangling on opposite sides.

Lothar leapt up behind him, whipped the mule into his top gait, a
laboured lumbering trot, and steered him directly down the wind.

After a mile Lothar thought he must have missed them, and slowed the
mule just as Hendrick stepped out of the moon shadows ahead of him.

How goes it?  How many did you get?  Lothar called anxiously, and
Hendrick laughed.

So many we ran out of halters.  once each of his men had captured one of
the escaped horses, he had gone up on its bare back and cut off the
bunches of fleeing animals, turning them and holding them while Manfred
ran in and slipped the halters over their heads.

Twenty-six!  Lothar exulted as he counted the strings of roped horses.
We'll be able to pick and choose.  He tempered his own jubilation.  All
right, we'll move out right away.

The army will be after us as soon as they can get troops up here. He
slipped the halter off the mule's head and slapped his rump.  Thank you,
old fellow, he said.  You can get on back home.  The mule accepted the
offer with alacrity and actually managed to gallop the first hundred
yards of his homeward journey.

Each of them picked a horse and mounted bareback with a string of three
or four loose horses behind him, and Lothar led them back towards the
rock shelter in the hills.

At dawn they paused briefly while Lothar checked over each of the stolen
horses.  Two had been injured in the melee in the stockade and he turned
them loose.  The others were of such fine quality and condition that he
could not choose between them though they had many more than they
required.

While they were sorting the horses Pig John regained consciousness and
sat up weakly.  He muttered prayers to his ancestors and Hottentot gods
for a release from his suffering and then vomited a painful gush of vile
brandy.

You and I still have business to settle, Lothar promised him
unsmilingly, then turned to Hendrick.  We'll take all these horses. We
are certain to lose some in the desert.  Then he raised his right arm in
the cavalry command: Move out!  They reached the rock shelter a little
before noon, but they paused only to load the waiting pack-saddles onto
the spare horses and then each of them chose a mount and saddled up.
They led the horses down the hill and watered them, allowing them to
drink their fill.

How much of a start do we have?  Hendrick asked.

The coloured troopers can do nothing without their white officers and it
might take them two or three days to get back.  They will have to
telegraph Windhoek for orders, and then they will have to make up a
patrol.  I'd say three days at least, more likely four or five.  We can
go a long way in three days, Hendrick said with satisfaction.

Nobody can go further, Lothar agreed.  It was a fact not a boast.

The desert was his dominion.  Few white men knew it as well as he, and
none better.

Shall we mount up?  Hendrick asked.

One more chore.  Lothar took the spare leather reins out of his
saddle-bag and looped them over his right wrist with the brass buckles
hanging to his ankles as he crossed to where Pig John sat miserably in
the shade of the riverbank with his face buried in his hands.  in his
extremity he did not hear Lothar's tread in the soft sand until he stood
over him.

I promised you, Lothar told him flatly, and shook out the heavy leather
thongs.

Master, I could not help it, shrieked Pig John and he tried to scramble
to his feet.

Lothar swung the thongs and the brass buckles blurred in a bright arc in
the sunlight.  The blow caught Pig John around the back and the buckles
snapped around his ribs and gouged out a groove in his flesh below the
armpit.

Pig John howled.  They forced me.  They made me drink The next blow
knocked him off his feet.  He kept screaming, although now the words
were no longer coherent, and the leathers cracked on his yellow skin,
the weals rising in thick shiny ridges and turning purple-red as ripe
grape-skins.

The sharp buckles shredded his shirt as though it had been torn off him
by lion's claws, and the sand clotted his blood into wet balls as it
dribbled into the riverbed.

He stopped screaming at last and Lothar stood back panting and wiped the
wet red leather thongs on a saddle cloth and looked at the faces of his
men.  The beating had been for them as much as for the man curled at his
feet.  They were wild dogs and they understood only strength, respected
only cruelty.

Hendrick spoke for them all.  He was paid a fair price.

Shall I finish him?  No!  Leave a horse for him.  Lothar turned away.
When he comes round he can follow us, or he can go to hell where he
belongs.  He swung up into the saddle of his own mount and avoided his
son's stricken eyes as he raised his voice.  All right, we are moving
out.  He rode with long stirrups in the Boer fashion, slouched down
comfortably in the saddle, and Hendrick pushed his mount up on one side
of him and Manfred on the other.

Lothar felt elated; the adrenalin of violence was like a drug in his
blood still and the open desert lay ahead of him.

With the taking of the horses he had crossed the frontier of law, he was
an outlaw once again, free of society's restraint, and he felt his
spirit towering on high like a hunting falcon.

By God.  I'd almost forgotten what it was like to have a rifle in my
hand and a good horse between my legs.  We are men once again, Hendrick
agreed, and leaned across to embrace Manfred.  You too.  Your father was
your age when he and I first rode out to war.  We are going to war
again.  You are a man as he was.  And Manfred forgot the spectacle he
had just witnessed and swelled with pride at being counted in this
company.  He sat up straight in the saddle and lifted his chin.

Lothar turned his face into the north-east, towards the hinterland where
the vast Kalahari brooded, and led them away.

That night while they camped in a deep gorge which shielded the light of
their small fire, the sentinel roused them with a low whistle.

They rolled out of their blankets, snatched up their rifles and slipped
away into the darkness.

The horses stirred and whickered and then Pig John rode in out of the
darkness and dismounted.  He stood wretchedly by the fire, his face
swollen and discoloured with bruises like a cur dog expecting to be
driven away.  The others came out of the shadows and without looking at
him or otherwise acknowledging his existence climbed back into their
blankets.

Sleep on the other side of the fire from me, Lothar told him harshly.
You stink of brandy.  And Pig John wriggled with relief and
gratification that he had been accepted back into the band.

In the dawn they mounted again and rode on into the wide hot emptiness
of the desert.

The road out to H'ani Mine was probably one of the most rugged in South
West Africa and every time she negotiated it Centaine promised herself:
We must really do something about having it repaired.  Then Dr
TWentyman-jones would give her an estimate of the cost of resurfacing
hundreds of miles of desert track and of erecting bridges over the river
courses and consolidating the passes through the hills, and Centaine's
good frugal sense would reassert itself.

After all it only takes three days, and I seldom have to drive it more
than three times a year, and it is really quite an adventure.  The
telegraph line that connected the mine to Windhoek had been expensive
enough.  After an estimate of fifty pounds it had finally cost her a
hundred pounds for every single Mile and she still felt resentment every
time she looked at that endless line of poles strung together with
gleaming copper wire that ran beside the track.  Apart from the cost, it
spoiled the view, detracting from the feeling of wildness and isolation
which she so treasured when she was out in the Kalahari.

She remembered with a twinge of nostalgia how they had slept on the
ground and carried their water in the first years.

Now there were regular stages at each night's stop, thatched rondavels
and windmills to raise water from the deep bores, servants living
permanently at each station to service the rest houses, providing meals
and hot baths and a log fire in the hearth on those crisp frosty nights
of the Kalahari winter, even paraffin refrigerators manufacturing
heavenly ice for the sundowner whisky in the fierce summer heat.  The
traffic on the road was heavy, the regular convoy under Gerhard Fourie
carrying out fuel and stores had cut deep ruts in the soft earth and
churned up the crossings in the dried riverbeds, and worst of all the
gauge of the tyres of the big Ford trucks was wider than that of the
yellow Daimler so that she had to drive with one wheel in the rut and
the other bouncing and jolting over the uneven middle ridge.

Added to all this it was high summer and the heat was crushing. The
metal of the Daimler's coachwork could raise blisters on the skin, and
they were forced to halt regularly when the water in the radiator boiled
and blew a singing plume of steam high in the air.  The very heavens
seemed to quiver with blue fire, and the far desert horizons were washed
away by the shimmering glassy whirlpools of heat mirage.

If only they could make a machine small enough to cool the air in the
Daimler, she thought, like the one in the railway coach, and then she
burst out laughing.  nens: I must be getting soft!  She remembered how,
with the two old Bushmen who had rescued her, she had travelled on foot
through the terrible dune country of the Namib and they had been forced
to cover their bodies with a plaster of sand and their own urine to
survive the monstrous heat of the desert noons.

Why are you laughing, Mater?  Shasa demanded.

just something that happened long ago, before you were born. 'Tell me,
oh please tell me.  He seemed unaffected by the heat and the dust and
the merciless jolting of the chassis.

But then why should he be?  She smiled at him.  This is where he was
born.  He too is a creature of the desert.

Shasa took her smile for acquiescence.  Come on, Mater.

Tell me the story.  Pourquoi pas?  Why not?  And she told him and
watched the shock in his expression.

Your own pee-pee?  He was aghast.

That surprises you?  She mocked him.  Then let me tell you what we did
when the water in our ostrich-egg bottles was finished.  Old O'wa, the
Bushman hunter, killed a gemsbok bull with his poisoned arrow and we
took out the first stomach, the rumen, and we squeezed out the liquid
from the undigested contents and we drank that.  It kept us going just
long enough to reach the sip-wells.  Mater!  That's right, cheri, I
drink champagne when I can, but I'll drink whatever keeps me alive when
I have to., She was silent while he considered that, and she glanced at
his face and saw the revulsion turn to respect.

What would you have done, cheri, drunk it or died?  she asked, to make
sure the lesson was learned.

I would have drunk, he answered without hesitation, and then with
affectionate pride, You know, Mater, you really are a crackerjack.  It
was his ultimate accolade.

Look!  She pointed ahead to where the lion-coloured plain, its far
limits lost in the curtains of mirage, seemed to be covered with a gauzy
cinnamon-coloured veil of thin smoke.

Centaine pulled the Daimler off the track and they climbed out onto the
running-board for a better view.

Springbok.  The first we have seen on this trip.  The beautiful gazelle
were moving steadily across the flats, all in the same direction.

There must be tens of thousands.  The springbok were elegant little
animals with long delicate legs and lyre-shaped horns.

They are migrating into the north, Centaine told him.

There must have been good rains up there, and they are moving to the
water.  Suddenly the nearest gazelles took fright at their presence and
began the peculiar alarm display that the Boers called pronking'. They
arched their backs and bowed their long necks until their muzzles
touched their fore hooves, and they bounced on stiff legs, flying high
and lightly into the shimmering hot air while from the fold of skin
along their backs they flashed a flowing white crest of hair.

This alarm behaviour was infectious and soon thousands of gazelle were
bounding across the plain like a flock of birds.  Centaine jumped down
from the running-board and mimicked them, forking the fingers of one
hand over her head as horns and with the fingers of the other showing
the crest hair down her back.  She did it so skilfully that Shasa hooted
with laughter and clapped his hands.

Bully for you, Mater!  He jumped down and joined her, and they pranced
in a circle, until they were weak with laughter and exertion. Then they
leaned against the Daimler and clung to each other for support.

Old O'wa taught me that, Centaine gasped.  He could imitate every animal
of the veld.  When they drove on she let Shasa take the wheel, for the
crossing of the plain was one of the easier stretches of the journey and
he drove well.  She lay back in the corner of her seat and after a while
Shasa broke the silence.

When we are alone you are so different.  He searched for the words.  You
are such jolly good fun.  I wish we could just be like this forever.
Anything you do too long becomes a bore, she told him gently.  The trick
is to do it all, not just one thing.  This is good fun but tomorrow we
will be at the mine and there will be another type of excitement for us
to experience and after that there will be something else.  We'll do it
all, and we will wring from each moment the last drop it has to offer.
Twenty-man-Jones had gone ahead to the mine while Centaine stayed on for
three days in Windhoek to go over the paperwork with Abraham Abrahams.
So he had alerted the servants at the rest houses as he passed through.

When they reached the last stage that evening, the bath water was so hot
that even Centaine who enjoyed her bath at the correct temperature for
boiling lobster was forced to add cold before she could bear it.  The
champagne was that marvelous 1928 Krug pale and chilled to the
temperature she preferred, just low enough to frost the bottle, and
though there was ice, she would not allow the barbaric habit of standing
the bottle in a bucket of it.

Cold feet, hot head, bad combination for both men and wine, her father
had taught her.  As always she drank only a single glass from the bottle
and afterwards there was the cold collation that TWentyman-jones had
provided for her and stored in the paraffin refrigerator, fare suitable
for this heat and which he knew she enjoyed - rock lobster from the
green Benguela Current with rich white flesh curled in their spiny red
tails and salad vegetables grown in the cooler highlands of Windhoek,
lettuce crackling crisp, tomatoes crimson ripe and pungent onions purple
tinted, then, as the final treat, wild truffles gleaned from the
surrounding desert by the tame Bushmen who tended the milk herd.  She
ate them raw and the salty fungus taste was the taste of Kalahari.

They left again in the pitch darkness before dawn, and at sunrise they
stopped and brewed coffee on a fire of camel-thorn branches; the grainy
red wood burned with an intense blue flame and gave to the coffee a
peculiar and delicious aroma.  They ate the picnic breakfast that the
rest-house cook had provided and washed it down with the smoky coffee
and watched the sunrise smearing the sky and desert with bronze and
gilding it with gold leaf.  As they went on, so the sun rose higher and
drained the land of colour, washing it with its silver-white bleach.

Stop here!  Centaine ordered suddenly, and when they climbed up onto the
roof of the Daimler and stared ahead, Shasa was puzzled.

What is it, Mater?  Don't you see it, cheri?  She pointed, 'There! Above
the horizon.  It floated in the sky, indistinct and ethereal.

It's standing in the sky, Shasa exclaimed, discerning it at last.

The mountain that floats in the sky, Centaine murmured.  Each time she
saw it like this the wonder of it was still as fresh and enchanting as
the first time.  The place of All Life.  She gave the hills their
Bushman name.

As they drove on so the shape of the hills hardened, becoming a sheer
rock palisade below which were spread the open mopani forests. In places
the cliffs were split and riven with gulleys and gorges.  In others they
were solid and tall and daubed with bright lichens, sulphur yellow and
green and orange.

The H'ani Mine was nestled beneath one of these sheer expanses of rock,
and the buildings seemed insignificant and incongruous in this place.

Centaine's brief to Twenty-man-Jones had been to make them as
unobtrusive as possible, without, of course, affecting the productivity
of the workings, but there was a limit to just how far he had been able
to follow her instructions.  The fenced compounds of the black workers
and the weathering grounds for the blue diamondiferous earth were
extensive, while the steel tower and elevator of the washing gear stuck
up high as the derrick of an oil rig.

However, the worst depredation had been caused by the appetite of the
steam boiler, hungry as some infernal Baal for cordwood.  The forest
along the foot of the hills had been cut down to satisfy it, and the
second growth had formed a scraggly unsightly thicket in place of the
tall grey-barked timber.

Twenty-man-Jones was waiting for them as they climbed out of the dusty
Daimler in front of the thatched administration building.

Good trip, Mrs Courtney?  he asked, lugubrious with pleasure. 'You'll
want a rest and clean up, I expect.  You know better than that, Dr
Twenty-man-Jones.  Let's get down to work.  Centaine led the way down
the wide verandah to her own office.  Sit beside me, she ordered Shasa
as she took her seat at the stinkwood desk.

They began with the recovery reports, then went on to the cost
schedules; and as Shasa struggled to keep up with the quick calling and
discussion of figures, he wondered how his mother could change so
swiftly from the girl companion who had hopped around in imitation of a
springbok only the previous day.

Shasa, what did we establish was the cost per carat if we average
twenty-three carats per load?  She fired the question at Shasa suddenly,
and when he muffed it she frowned.  This isn't the time for dreams.  And
she turned her shoulder to him to emphasize the rebuke. 'Very well, Dr
TWentyman-Jones, we have avoided the unpleasant long enough.  Let us
consider what economies we have to institute to meet the quota cut and
still keep the H'ani Mine working and turning a profit.  It was dusk
before Centaine broke off and stood up.  We'll pick it up from there
tomorrow.  She stretched like a cat and then led them out onto the wide
verandah.

Shasa will be working for you as we agreed.  I think he should begin on
the haulage.  I was about to suggest it, Ma'am.  What time do you want
me?  Shasa asked.

The shift comes on at five am but I expect Master Shasa will want to
come on later?  Twenty-man-Jones glanced at Centaine.  It was, of
course, a challenge and a test, and she remained silent, waiting for
Shasa to make the decision on his own account.  She saw him struggling
with himself.  He was at that stage of growth when sleep is a drug and
rising in the morning a brutal penance.

I'll be at the main haulage at four-thirty, sir, he said, and Centaine
relaxed and took his arm.

Then it had best be an early night.  She turned the Daimler into the
avenue of small iron-roofed cottages which housed the white shift bosses
and artisans and their families.  The orders of society were strictly
observed on the H'ani Mine.  It was a microcosm of the young nation. The
black labourers lived in the fenced and guarded compounds where
whitewashed buildings resembled rows of stables.  There were separate,
more elaborate quarters for the black boss-boys, who were allowed to
have their families living with them.  The white artisans and shift
bosses were housed in the avenues laid out at the foot of the hills,
while the management lived up the slopes, each building larger and the
lawns around it more extensive the higher it was sited.

As they turned at the end of the avenues there was a girl sitting on the
stoep of the last cottage and she stuck her tongue out at Shasa as the
Daimler passed.  It was almost a year since Shasa had last seen her and
nature had wrought wondrous changes in her during that time. Her feet
were still bare and dirty to the ankles, and her curls were still
wind-tousled and sun-streaked, but the faded cotton of her blouse was
now so tight that it constricted her blossoming breasts.  They were
forced upwards and bulged out over the top in a deep cleavage and Shasa
wriggled in the seat as he realized that the twin red-brown coin-shaped
marks on the blouse, though they looked like stains, were in fact
showing through the thin cloth from beneath.

Her legs had grown longer, her knees were no longer knobbly, and they
shaded from coffee brown at the ankles to smooth cream on the inside of
her thighs.  She sat on the edge of the verandah with her knees apart
and her skirts pulled high and rucked up between her legs. As Shasa's
gaze dropped, she let her knees fall a little further open. Her nose was
snubbed and sprinkled with freckles, and she wrinkled it as she grinned.
it was a sly cheeky grin, and her tongue was bright pink between white
teeth.

Guiltily Shasa jerked his eyes away and stared ahead through the
windshield.  But he remembered vividly every last detail of those
forbidden minutes behind the pump-house and the heat rose in his cheeks.
He could not help glancing at his mother.  She was looking ahead at the
road and had not noticed.  He felt relief until she murmured, She is a
common little hussy, ogling everything in pants. Her father is one of
the men we are retrenching.  We'll be rid of her before she causes real
trouble for us and herself.  He should have known she had not missed
that brief exchange.  She saw everything, he thought, and then he felt
the impact of her words.  The girl was being sent away, and he was
surprised by his feeling of deprivation.  It was a physical ache in the
floor of his stomach.

What will happen to them, Mater?  he asked softly.  I mean, the people
we are firing.  While he had listened to his mother and Twenty-man-jones
discussing the retrenchments, he had thought of them merely as numbers;
but with that glimpse of the girl, they had become flesh and blood.  He
remembered his adversary the blond boy, and the little girl that he had
seen from the window of the railway coach, standing beside the tracks in
the hobo camp, and he imagined Annalisa Botha in the place of that
strange girl.

I don't know what will become of them.  His mother's mouth tightened.  I
don't think it is anything that should concern us.  This world is a
place of harsh reality, and each of us has to face it in his own way.  I
think we should rather consider what would be the consequences if we did
not let them go.  We would lose money.  That is right, and if we lose
money, we have to close down the mine, which would mean that all the
others would lose their jobs, not just the few that we have to fire.
Then we all suffer.  If we did that with everything we own, in the end
we would lose everything.  We would be like the rest of them.  Would you
prefer that?  Suddenly Shasa had a new mental image.  Instead of the
blond boy standing in the hobo camp, it was himself, barefoot in dusty,
tattered khakis, and he could almost feel the night chill through the
thin shirt and the rumble of hunger in his guts.

No!  he said explosively, and then dropped his voice.  I wouldn't like
that.  He shivered at the persistent images her words had invoked.  Is
that going to happen, Mater?  Could it happen?  Might we also be poor?
We could be, cheri.  It could happen quickly and cruelly if we are not
on guard every minute.  A fortune is extremely difficult to build but
very easy to destroy.  Is it going to happen? he insisted, and he
thought about the Midas Touch, his yacht, and the polo ponies, and his
friends at Bishops, and the vineyards of Weltevreden and he was afraid.

Nothing is certain.  She reached across and took his hand.

That's the fun of this game of life, if it was then it wouldn't be worth
playing.  I wouldn't like to be poor.  No!  She said it as vehemently as
he had.  It will not happen, not if we are cunning and bold.  What you
said about the trade of the world coming to a halt. People no longer
able to buy our diamonds...  Before those had been merely words, now
they were a dreadful possibility.

We must believe that the wheels will one day begin to turn again, one
day soon, and we must play the golden rules.

Do you remember them?  She swung the Daimler through the climbing turns
up the slope and around the spur of the hills so that the mine buildings
disappeared behind the rock wall of the cliff.

What was the first golden rule, Shasa?  she prompted him.

Sell when everybody else is buying and buy when everybody else is
selling he repeated.

Good.  And what is happening now?  Everybody is trying to sell. It
dawned upon him and his grin was triumphant.

He's so beautiful, and he has the sense and the instinct, she thought as
she waited for him to follow the coils of the serpent until he reached
its head and discovered the fangs.

His expression changed as it happened.  He looked at her crestfallen.

But, Mater, how can we buy if we haven't got the money?  She pulled to
the side of the track and cut the engine.

Then turned to him seriously and took both his hands.

I am going to treat you as a man, she said.  What I tell you is our
secret, our private business that we share with nobody.  Not Grandpater
or Anna, or Abraham Abrahams or TWentyman-jones.  It's our thing, yours
and mine alone.  He nodded and she drew a deep breath.  I have a
premonition that this catastrophe that has engulfed the world is our
pivot, an opportunity that very few are ever offered.  For the last few
years I have been preparing to exploit it.  How did I do that, cheri? He
shook his head, staring at her fascinated.

I have turned everything, with the exception of the mine and
Weltevreden, into cash, and even on those I have borrowed heavily, very
heavily.  That's why you called all the loans.  That's why we went to
Walvis for that fish factory and the trawlers, you wanted the money.
'Yes, cheri, yes, she encouraged him, unconsciously shaking hands,
willing him to see it.  And his face lit again.

You are going to buy!  he exclaimed.

I have already begun, she told him.  I have bought land and mining
concessions, fishing concessions and guano concessions, buildings.  I
have even bought the Alhambra Theatre in Cape Town and the Coliseum in
Johannesburg.  But most of all I have bought land, and the option to buy
more land, tens and hundreds of thousands of acres, cheri, at two
shillings an acre.  Land is the only true store of wealth.  He could not
really grasp it, but he sensed the enormity of what she told him and she
saw it in his eyes.

Now you know our secret, she laughed.  If I have guessed right, we will
double and redouble our fortune.  And if it doesn't change. If the, he
searched for the word, if the Depression goes on and on for ever, what
then, Mater?  She pouted and dropped his hands.  Then, cheri, nothing
will matter very much, one way or the other.  She started the Daimler
and drove up the last pitch of the road to the bungalow standing alone
in its wide lawns, with lights burning in the windows and the servants
lined up respectfully on the front verandah in their immaculate white
livery to welcome her.

She parked at the bottom of the steps, turned off the engine and turned
to him again.

No, Shasa cheri, we are not going to be poor.  We are going to be
richer, much richer than we ever were before.  And then later, through
you, my darling, we will have power to go with our wealth.  Great
fortune, enormous power.  Oh, I have it all planned, so carefully
planned!  Her words filled Shasa's head with turbulent thoughts.  He
could not sleep.

Great fortune, enormous power.  The words excited and disturbed him.  He
tried to visualize what they meant and saw himself like a strongman at
the circus, in leopard-skins and leather wristbands, standing with arms
akimbo, huge biceps flexed, upon a pyramid of golden sovereigns, while a
congregation in white robes knelt and made obeisance before him.

He ran the images through his head over and over, each time altering
some detail, all of them pleasurable but lacking the final touch until
he bestowed upon one of his white robed worshippers a crown of unruly
wind-tousled sun-streaked curls.  He placed her in the front rank, and
she lifted her forehead from the ground and stuck her tongue out at him.

His erection was so quick and hard that it made him gasp, and before he
could prevent himself he had slipped his hand under the sheet and prised
it out of the fly of his pyjamas.

lock Murphy had warned him about it.  It will spoil your eye, Master
Shasa.  I have seen many a good man with a bat or a polo stick ruined by
Mrs Palm and her five daughters.  But in his fantasy Armalisa was
sitting up, her long legs apart, and she was slowly drawing up the skirt
of her white robe.  The skin of her legs was smooth as butter, and he
moaned softly.  She was staring at the front of his costume, her tongue
whisking lightly over her parted lips, and the white skirt rose higher
and higher, and his fist began to jerk rhythmically.  He could not
prevent it.

Up and up rode the white skirt, never quite reaching the fork of her
crotch.  Her legs seemed to stretch forever, like the railway tracks
across the desert running on and on and never meeting.  He choked and
jerked into a sitting position on the feather mattress, doubled over his
flying fist, and when it came it was sharp and painful as a bayonet
driven up into his intestines, and he cried out and fell back against
the pillows.

Annalisa's sly grinning freckled face receded, and the wet front of his
pyjamas began to turn icy cold, but he did not have the will to strip
them off.

When the servant woke him with a tray of coffee and a dish of hard sweet
rusks, he felt dazed and exhausted.  It was still dark outside, and he
rolled over and pulled the pillows over his head.

Madam your mother, she says I wait here until you get up, said the
Ovambo servant darkly, and Shasa dragged himself to the bathroom trying
to conceal the dry stain on the front of his pyjamas.

One of the grooms had his pony saddled and waiting at the front steps of
the bungalow.  Shasa took a moment to joke and laugh with the groom and
then greet and caress his pony, rubbing foreheads with him and blowing
softly into his nostrils.

You are getting fat, Prester John, he chided the pony.

We'll have to work that off you with the polo sticks.  He swung up into
the saddle and took the short cut, following the pipe track around the
shoulder of the hill.  The pipe line carried the water from the spring
around the hills to the mine and the washing gear.  He passed the
pumphouse and felt a guilty pang at its associations with last night's
depravity, but then the dawn lit the plains below the cliffs and he
forgot that in the pleasure of watching the veld come alive and greet
the sun.

On this side of the hills Centaine had ordered that the forest be left
untouched and the mopani was tall and stately.

A covey of francolin were dawn-crying in the thicket down the slope, and
a grey duiker, returning from the spring, bounded across the track under
the pony's nose.  Shasa laughed as he shied theatrically.

Stop that, you old show-off!  He turned the corner of the cliff and the
contrast was depressing.  The desecrated forest, the deforming scar of
the workings on the hillside, the graceless square iron buildings and
the stark skeletal girders o t was ing gear, they were.

He gave the pony a touch with his heels and they galloped the last mile
and reached the main haulage just as Twenty-man-Jones old Ford came up
the track from the village with headlights still burning.  He checked
his watch as he stepped out and looked sad as he saw that Shasa was
three minutes ahead of time.

Have you ever been down the haulage, Master Shasa?  No, sir.  He was
going to add, My Mater has never allowed it, but somehow that seemed
superfluous, and for the first time he felt a twinge of resentment at
his mother's all-pervading presence.

Twenty-man-Jones led him to the head of the haulage and introduced him
to the shift boss.

Master Shasa will be working with you, he explained.

Treat him normally, just like you would treat any other young man who
will one day be your managing director, he instructed.  It was
impossible to tell by Twenty-man-jones expression when he was joking, so
nobody laughed.

Get a tin helmet for him, Twenty-man-Jones ordered, and while Shasa
adjusted the straps of the helmet he led him to the foot of the sheer
cliff.

The incline tunnel had been cut into the base of the cliff, a round
aperture into which the steel rail tracks angled downwards at forty-five
degrees before disappearing into the dark depths.  A string of cocopans
stood at the head of the tracks, and Twenty-man-jones led him to the
first truck and they climbed into the steel bin.  The shift swarmed into
the trucks behind them, a dozen white foremen and one hundred and fifty
black workers in ragged dusty overalls and helmets of bright unpainted
metal, laughing and ragging each other in boisterous horseplay.

The steam winch of the winding gear clattered and hissed and the string
of trucks jerked forward and then, rocking and swaying, ran down the
steeply inclined ramp on the narrow-gauge railway tracks.  The steel
wheels rumbling and clacking over the joints of the track, they dropped
down into the dark maw of the tunnel.

Shasa stirred uneasily, stabbed with unreasoning fear at the sudden
absolute blackness that engulfed them.  However, in the trucks behind
him the Ovambo miners were singing, their deep melodious voices echoing
in the dark confines of the tunnel, a marvelous chorus raised in an
African work chant, and Shasa relaxed and leaned closer to
Twenty-man-Jones to follow his explanation.

The incline is forty-five degrees and the capacity of the winding gear
is one hundred tons, in mining parlance that is sixty loads of ore.  Our
target is six hundred loads a shift raised to the surface. Shasa was
trying to concentrate on the figures; he knew his mother would question
him this evening, but the darkness and singing and the rumble of the
swaying trucks distracted him.  Ahead of him there was a tiny coin of
brilliant white light that grew swiftly in size until abruptly they
burst out of the far end of the tunnel and involuntarily Shasa gasped
with astonishment.

He had studied the diagrams of the pipe and, of course, there were
photographs on his mother's desk at Weltevreden but they had not
adequately prepared him for its immensity.

It was an almost perfectly round hole in the centre of the hills. It was
open to the sky, and the sides of the excavation were vertical and
sheer, a circular wall of grey rock like a cockpit.  They had entered it
through the tunnel that connected the workings to the far side of the
hills and the narrow ramp on which they were riding continued down at
the same angle of forty-five degrees until it reached the floor of the
excavation two hundred feet below them.  The drop on either hand was
breathtaking.  The great rock-lined hole was a mile across, and its
sheer walls four hundred feet from the tip to the floor.

Twenty-man-Jones was still lecturing him.  This is a volcanic pipe, a
blow hole from the earth's depths up which the molten magma was forced
to the surface in the beginning of time.  In those temperatures, as hot
as the sun, and enormous pressures the diamonds were forged, and they
were brought up in the fiery lava.  Shasa stared around him, screwing
his head to take in the proportions of the huge excavation as
TWentyman-Jones went on, Then the pipe was pinched off at depth, and the
magma in it cooled and solidified.  The upper layer, exposed to air and
sun, was oxidized into the classical "yellow ground" of the
diamondiferous formation.

We worked down through that for eleven years, and only recently we
reached the "blue ground".  He made an expansive gesture that took in
the slaty blue rock that formed the floor of the huge pit.  That is the
deeper deposit of the solidified magma, hard as iron and as full of
diamonds as currants in a hot cross bun.  They reached the floor of the
workings and climbed down from the truck.

The operation is fairly straightforward, Twenty-man-jones went on.

The new shift comes in at first light and begins work on the previous
evening's blast.  The broken ground is lashed and loaded into the
cocopans and sent up the haulage to the surface.  After that they mark
out and drill the shot-holes for the next blast and then they set the
charges.  At dusk we pull out the shift, and the shift boss lights the
fuses.

After the blast we leave the workings overnight to settle and for the
fumes to disperse, then the next morning we begin the whole process over
again.  There, he pointed to an area of shattered blue grey rock,
'that's last night's blast.

That's where we will begin today.  Shasa had not expected to be so
absorbed by the fascination of this mighty excavation, but his interest
grew more intense as the day went on.  Not even the heat and the dust
daunted him.  The heat was trapped between the sheer walls when at noon
the sun beat down directly onto the uneven broken floor.  The dust was
floury, rising from the shattered ore body as the hammer-men swung their
ten-pound sledges to crack the larger lumps into manageable pieces.  The
dust hung in a fog over the lashing teams as they loaded the cocopans,
and it coated their faces and their bodies and turned them into ghostly
grey albinos.

We get a bit of miners phthisis, Twenty-man-jones admitted.  The dust
gets into their lungs and turns to stone.  ideally we should hose the
ore down and keep it wet to lay the dust, but we are short of water.  We
haven't enough for the washing gear.  We certainly can't afford to
splash it around.  So men die and are crippled, but it takes ten years
to build up in the lungs, and we give them, or their widows, a good
pension, and the miners inspector is sympathetic, though his sympathy
costs a penny.  At noon TWentyman-jones called Shasa across. 'Your
mother said you need only work half the shift.  I'm going up now.

Are you coming?  I'd rather not, sir, Shasa answered diffidently. 'I'd
like to watch them charge the holes for the blast., TWentyman-jones
shook his head sorrowfully.  Chip off the old block! and went away still
muttering.

The shift boss allowed Shasa to fight the fuses, under his careful
supervision.  It gave Shasa a sense of importance and power to touch the
flaring chesa stick, the igniter, to the bunched tips of the fuses,
passing quickly down the line and watching the fire run down the twisted
white fuses, turning them sizzling black in the swirl of blue smoke.

He and the shift boss rode up on the haulage to the cry of Fire in the
hole!  and Shasa lingered at the head of the main haulage until the
shots fired and he felt the earth tremble beneath his feet.

Then he saddled Prester John and, dusty, streaked with sweat, bone-tired
and happy as he had seldom been in his life, he rode back along the pipe
track.

He was not even thinking about her when he reached the pump-house, but
there she was, perched up on top of the silver-painted waterpipe. The
shock was such that when Prester John shied under him he almost lost his
seat and had to snatch at the pommel.

She had plaited a wreath of wild flowers into her hair and unbuttoned
the top of her blouse.  In one of the books in the library at
Weltevreden there was an illustration of satyrs and nymphs dancing in
the forest.  The book was kept in the forbidden section to which his
mother guarded the key, but Shasa had invested some of his pocket money
in a duplicate and lightly clad nymphs were among his favourites of all
that treasure house of erotica.

Annalisa was one of these, a wood nymph, only part human, and she
slanted her eyes at him slyly and her eye teeth were pointed and very
white.

Hello, Annalisa.  His voice cracked treacherously, and his heart was
beating so wildly that he thought it might spring into his throat and
choke him.

She smiled but did not reply, instead she caressed her own arm, a slow
lingering stroke from her wrist to her bare shoulder.  He watched her
fingers raising the fine coppery hair on her forearm and his loins
swelled.

She leaned forward and placed her forefinger on her lower lip, still
grinning slyly, and her bosom changed shape and the opening of her
blouse gaped and he saw that the skin in the vee was so white and
translucent that the tiny blue veins showed through it.

He kicked out of the stirrups and swung a leg over Prester John's
withers in the showy polo player's forward dismount, but the girl
whirled to her feet, hoisted her skirts high and, with a flash of creamy
thighs, sprang lightly over the pipeline and disappeared into the thick
scrub on the hillside beyond.

Shasa raced after her, and found himself struggling through dense
undergrowth.  It clawed at his face and seized his legs.

He heard her giggle once, not far ahead of him, but a rock twisted under
his boot and he fell heavily, winding himself.

When he pulled himself up and limped after her, she was gone.

A while longer he floundered around in the scrub, his ardour swiftly
cooling, and by the time he battled his way back to the pipe track to
find that Prester John had taken full advantage of the diversion and
decamped, he was bubbling over with anger at himself and the girl.

it was a long tramp back to the bungalow and he hadn't realized how
tired he was.  It was dark by the time he got home.  The pony with empty
saddle had raised the alarm and Centaine's concern changed instantly to
relieved fury when she saw him.

A week in the heat and dust of the workings and the monotony of the work
began to pall, so TWentyman-Jones sent Shasa to work in the winch room
of the main haulage.  The winch driver was a taciturn, morose man and
jealous of his job.  He would not allow Shasa to touch the controls of
the winch.

My union doesn't allow it.  He stood his ground stubbornly and after two
days Twenty-man-Jones moved Shasa to the weathering ground.

Here the ore was tipped out and spread in the open by gangs of Ovambo
labourers, all stripped to the waist and chanting in chorus as they went
through the laborious repetitive process of tip and spread under the
urgings of their white supervisor and his gang of black boss-boys.

On this weathering ground lay the stockpile of the H'ani Mine, thousands
of tons of ore spread out on an area the size of four polo fields.  When
the blue ground was blasted out of the pipe it was hard as concrete;
only gelignite and the ten-pound sledge hammers would break it.  But
after it had been lying in the sun on the weathering ground for six
months it began to break down and crumble until it was chalky and
friable and could be reloaded in the cocopans and taken to the mill and
the washing gear.

Shasa was placed in charge of a gang of forty labourers, and soon struck
up a friendship with the Ovambo boss-boy.

Like all the black tribesmen he had two names, his tribal name which he
did not divulge to his white employers, and his work name. The Ovambo's
work name was Moses.  He was fifteen years or so younger than the other
boss-boys, and had been selected for his intelligence and initiative. He
spoke both English and Afrikaans well and the respect that the black
labourers usually reserved for the grey hair of age he earned from them
with his billy club and boot and acid wit.

If I was a white man, he told Shasa, one day I would have Doctela's job.
Doctela was the Ovambo name for TWentyman-Jones, and Moses went on, I
might still have it, one day, or if not me, then my son.  Shasa was
shocked and then intrigued by such an outrageous notion.  He had never
before met a black who did not know his place in society.  There was a
disturbing presence about the tall Ovambo, who looked like one of the
drawings of an Egyptian pharaoh from the forbidden section of the
Weltevreden library, but that hint of danger made him more intriguing to
Shasa.

They usually spent the lunch-hour break together, Shasa helping Moses to
perfect his reading and writing in the grubby ruled notebook which was
his most prized possession.  In return the Ovambo taught Shasa the
rudiments of his language, especially the oaths and insults, and the
meaning of some of the work chants, most of which were ribald.

Is baby-making work or pleasure?  was the rhetorical opening question of
Shasa's favourite chant, and he joined in the response to the delight of
the gang he was supervising: It cannot be work or the white man would
make us do it for him!  Shasa was just over fourteen years old.  Some of
the men he supervised were three times his age, and none of them thought
it strange.  Instead they responded to his teasing and his sunny smile
and his sorry attempts to speak their language. His men were soon
spreading five loads to four of the other teams, and they ended the
second week as top gang on the grounds.

Shasa was too involved with the work and his new friend to notice the
dark looks of the white supervisor, and even when he made a pointed
remark about kaffer-boeties, or nigger-lovers', Shasa did not take the
reference personally.

On the third Saturday, after the men had been paid at noon, he rode down
to the boss-boys cottage at Moses invitation and spent an hour sitting
in the sun on the front doorstep of the cottage drinking sour milk from
the calabash that Moses shy and pretty young wife offered, and helping
him read aloud from the copy of Macaulay's History of England he had
smuggled out of the bungalow and brought down in his saddlebag.

The book was one of his set works at school so Shasa considered himself
something of an authority on it, and he was enjoying the unusual role of
teacher and instructor until at last Moses closed the book.

This is very heavy work, Good Water, he had translated Shasa's name
directly into the Ovambo, worse than spreading ore in the summer.

I will work on it later, and he went into the single-roomed cottage,
placed the book in his locker and came back with a roll of newspaper.

Let us try this.  He offered the paper to Shasa, who spread it on his
lap.  It was poor quality yellow newsprint and the ink smudged onto his
fingers.  The name on the top of the page was Umlomo Wa Bantu, and Shasa
translated it without difficulty: The Mouth of the Black Nations', and
he glanced down the columns of print.  The articles were mostly in
English, though there were a few in the vernacular.

Moses pointed out the editorial, and they started working through it.

What is the African National Congress?  Shasa was puzzled.  And who is
Jabavu?  Eagerly the Ovambo began to explain, and Shasa's interest
turned to unease as he listened.

Jabavu is the father of the Bantu, of all the tribes, of all the black
people.  The African National Congress is the herder who guards our
cattle.  I don't understand.  Shasa shook his head.  He did not like the
direction that the discussion was taking, and he began to squirm as
Moses quoted: Your cattle are gone, my people Go rescue them!

Go rescue them!

Leave your breechloader And turn instead to the pen.

Take paper and ink, For that will be your shield.

Your rights are going So take up your pen Load it with ink And do battle
with the pen.

That is politics, Shasa interrupted him.  Blacks don't take part in
politics.  That's white men's business.  This was the cornerstone of the
South African way of life.

The glow went out of Moses expression and he lifted the newspaper off
Shasa's lap and stood up.

I will return your book to you when I have read it.  He avoided Shasa's
eyes and went back into the cottage.

on the Monday Twenty-man-Jones stopped Shasa at the main gate of the
weathering grounds.  I think you have learned all there is to know about
weathering, Master Shasa.  It's about time we moved you along to the
mill house and washing gear!

And as they followed the railway tracks up to the main plant, walking
beside one of the cocopans which was full of the crumbling weathered
ore, Twenty-man-Jones remarked: It is just as well not to become too
familiar with the black labourers, Master Shasa, you will find they tend
to take advantage if you do.  Shasa was puzzled for a moment, then he
laughed.  Oh, you mean Moses.  He isn't a Labourer, he is a boss-boy,
and he is jolly bright, sir.  A bit too bright for his own good,
Twenty-man-Jones agreed bitterly.  The bright ones are always the
malcontents and trouble-stirrers.  Give me an honest dumb nigger every
time.  Your friend Moses is trying to organize a black mineworkers
union.  Shasa knew from his grandfather and his mother that Bolsheviks
and trade unionists were the most dreaded monsters, intent on tearing
down the framework of civilized society.

He was appalled to learn that Moses was one of these, but
Twenty-man-Jones was going on: We also suspect that he is at the centre
of a nice little IDB operation.  IDB was the other monster of civilized
existence, illicit Diamond Buying, the trade in stolen diamonds, and
Shasa was revolted by the idea that his friend could be both a trade
unionist and an illicit dealer.

Yet Twenty-man-jones next words depressed him.  I am afraid Mister Moses
will head the list of those we will be laying off at the end of the
month.  He is a dangerous man.

We will simply have to get shot of him.  They are getting rid of him
simply because the two of us are friends.  Shasa saw through it. 'It's
because of me.  He was swamped with a sense of guilt, and guilt was
followed almost immediately by anger.  Quick words leapt to his tongue.
He wanted to cry, It's not fair!  But before he spoke he looked at
Twenty-man-Jones and knew intuitively that any defence he attempted of
Moses would only seal the bossboy's fate.

He shrugged.  You know what is best, sir, he agreed, and he saw the
slight relaxation in the set of the old man's shoulders.

Mater, he thought, I will talk to Mater, and then, with intense
frustration, If only I could do it myself, if only I could say what must
be done.  And then it dawned upon him that this was what his mother had
meant when she spoke of power.  The ability to charge and direct the
orders of existence that surrounded him.

Power, he whispered to himself.  One day I will have power. Enormous
power.  The work in the mill house was more exacting and interesting.
The friable weathered ore was loaded into the bins and mg.

then fed through the hoppers into the rollers which crushed it to the
correct consistency for the washing gear.  The machinery was massive and
powerful, the din almost deafening as the ore tumbled out of the hoppers
into the feed chute and was sucked into the spinning steel rollers with
a continuous roar.  One hundred and fifty tons an hour; it went in one
end as chalky lumps the size of ripe watermelons and poured out the far
end as gravel and dust.

Annalisa's brother, Stoffel, who had on Shasa's last visit to the H'ani
adjusted the timing on his old Ford and who was also the skilled mimic
of bird calls, was now an apprentice in the mill house.  He was
delegated to show Shasa around, and undertook the assignment with gusto
and relish.

You have to be goddamned careful with the mucking settings on the
rollers or you crush the bloody diamonds to powder.  Stoffel emphasized
his newly acquired manliness and authority with oaths and obscenity.

Come on, Shasa, I'll show you the grease points.  All points have to be
grease-gunned at the beginning of every shift.  He crawled under the
bank of thundering rollers, shouting into Shasa's ear to make himself
heard.  Last month one of the other apprentices got his fucking arm in
the bearing.  It pulled it off like a chicken's wing, man.  You should
have seen the blood.  Ghoulishly he pointed out the dried stains on the
concrete floor and galvanized walls.  Man, I tell you, he squirted blood
like a garden hose.  Stoffel climbed the steel catwalk like a monkey and
they looked down on the roller mill tables. 'One of the Ovambo kaffirs
fell off here, right smack into the ore bin, there wasn't even a scrap
of bone bigger than your finger left of him when he came out the other
end of the rollers.  Ja, man, it's a bloody dangerous job, he told Shasa
proudly.  You've got to keep on your mucking toes all the time.  When
the mine hooter blew the lunch hour he led Shasa around to the shady
side of the mill house and they perched comfortably on the ventilator
housing.  Under the sanction of the. work place they could associate
quite openly, and Shasa felt grown-up and important in his blue
workman's overalls as he opened the lunch box that the chef at the
bungalow had sent down for him.

Chicken and tongue sandwiches and jam roly-poly, he checked the
contents.  Do you want some, Stoffel?  No, man.  Here comes my sister
with my lunch.  And Shasa lost all interest in his own lunch box.

Annalisa was pedalling down the avenue on a black-framed Rudge with the
nest of canteens dangling from the handlebars.  It was the first time
that he had seen her since the meeting at the pumphouse, though he had
looked for her each day since then.  She had tucked her skirts into her
bloomers to keep them clear of the chain.  She stood up on the pedals
and her legs pumped rhythmically as she came through the gates of the
mill house and the wind flattened the thin stuff of her dress against
the front of her body.

Her breasts were disproportionately large for her slim brown limbs.

Shasa watched her with total fascination.  She became aware of him,
sitting beside her brother, and her entire bearing changed.  She dropped
back onto the saddle and squared her shoulders, lifting one hand from
the handlebars to try and smooth the windblown tangle of her hair.  She
braked the Rudge, stepped down off the pedals and propped the machine
against the bottom of the ventilator housing.

What's for lunch, Lisa?  Stoffel Botha demanded.

Sausage and mash.  She handed the canteens up to him.

Same as always.  The sleeves of her dress were cut back and when she
lifted her arms Shasa saw the bush of coarse blond hair in her armpits
tangled and wet with perspiration and he crossed his legs quickly.

Sis, man!  Stoffel registered his disgust.  It's always sausage and
mash!  Next time I'll ask Ma to cook fillet steak and mushrooms. She
lowered her arms and Shasa realized he was staring but could not stop
himself.  She pulled the opening at the neck of her blouse closed and he
saw a faint flush under the suntanned skin at her throat, but she had
not yet looked directly at him.

Thanks for nothing, Stoffel dismissed her, but she lingered.

You can have some of mine, Shasa offered.

I'll swop you, Stoffel offered generously, and Shasa glanced into the
canteen and saw the lumpy potato mash swimming in thin greasy gravy.

I'm not hungry.  He spoke to the girl for the first time.

Would you like a sandwich, Annalisar She smoothed the skirt over her
hips and looked directly at him at last.  Her eyes slanted like a wild
cat's, and she grinned slyly.

When I want something from you, Shasa Courtney, I will whistle for it,
like this.  She pouted her lips into a rosy cupid's bow and whistled
like a snake charmer, at the same time slowly raising her forefinger in
an unmistakably obscene gesture.

Stoffel let out a delighted guffaw and punched Shasa's arm, Man, she's
got the hots for you!  While Shasa blushed scarlet, and sat speechless
with shock, Annalisa turned away deliberately and picked up the bicycle.
She went out through the gates standing on the pedals and swinging the
Rudge from side to side under her so that her tight round buttocks
oscillated with each stroke.

That evening as he turned Prester John onto the pipe track Shasa's pulse
started to gallop with anticipation, and as he approached the pumphouse
he slowed the pony to a walk, afraid of disappointment, reluctant to
turn the corner of the building.

Yet he was still not prepared for the shock when he saw her.  She was
draped languidly against one of the stanchions of the pipeline, and
Shasa was speechless as she came slowly upright and sauntered to the
head of his pony without looking up at the rider.

She held the cheek strap of his halter and crooned to the pony. 'What a
pretty boy- The pony blew through his nostrils, and shifted his weight.
What a lovely soft nose.  She stroked his muzzle with a lingering touch.

would you like a little kiss then, my pretty boy.  She pursed her lips,
pink and soft and moist, and glanced up at Shasa before she leaned
forward and deliberately kissed the pony's muzzle, slipping her arms
around his neck.  She held the kiss for long seconds and then laid her
cheek against the pony's cheek.  Beginning to sway, humming softly in
her throat and rocking her hips gently, she at last looked up at Shasa
with those sly slanting eyes.

He was struggling to find something to say, confused by the rush of his
emotions, and she moved slowly to the pony's shoulder and stroked his
flank.

So strong.  Her hand brushed Shasa's thigh lightly, almost
unintentionally, and then came back more deliberately and she was no
longer looking at his face.  He could not cover himself, could not hide
his violent reaction to her touch, and suddenly she let out a shocking
screech of laughter and stood back with both hands on her hips.

Are you going to camp out, Shasa Courtney?  she demanded, and he was
puzzled and embarrassed.  He shook his head dumbly.

Then what are you putting up a tent for?  She hooted, gazing shamelessly
at the front of his breeches and he doubled up awkwardly in the saddle.
With a disconcerting change of mood, she seemed to take pity on him and
she went back to the pony's head and led him along the track, giving
Shasa a chance to recover his composure.

What did my brother tell you about me?  she asked, without looking
round.

Nothing, he assured her.

Don't believe what he says.  She was unconvinced.  He always tries to
make out bad things about me.  Did he tell you about Fourie, the driver?
Everybody at the mine knew how Gerhard Fourie's wife had caught the two
of them in the cab of his truck after the Christmas party.  Fourie's
wife was older than Annalisa's mother, but she had blackened both the
girl's eyes and torn her only good dress to tatters.

He didn't tell me anything, Shasa reiterated stoutly, and then with
interest, What happened?  Nothing, she said quickly.  It was all lies.
And then, with another change of direction, Would you like me to show
you something?  Yes, please.  Shasa answered with alacrity.

He had an inkling of what it might be.

Give me an arm.  She came to his stirrup and he leaned down and they
hooked elbows.  He swung her up and she was light and strong.  She sat
behind him astride the pony's rump and slid both arms around Shasa's
waist.

Take the path to the left.  She directed him and they rode in silence
for ten minutes.

How old are you." she asked at last.

Almost fifteen.  She stretched the truth a little and she said, 'I'll be
sixteen in two months.  if there had been any doubts as to who was in
charge, this declaration effectively settled it.  Shasa deferred to her
and she felt it in his carriage.

She pressed her breasts to his back as though to emphasize her control
and they were big and rubbery hard and burned him through his thin
cotton shirt.

Where are we going, he asked after another long silence.

They had by-passed the bungalow.

Hush up!  I'll show you when we get there.  The track had narrowed and
become rougher.  Shasa doubted anybody had passed this way in months,
other than the small wild beasts that still lived this close to the
mine.

Finally it petered out altogether against the base of the cliff, and
Annaliss slid down from the pony's back.

Leave Your horse here.  He tethered the pony and looked around him with
interest.

He had never been so far along the base of the cliffs.  They must be
three miles from the bungalow at least.

Below them the scree slope plunged downwards at a steep angle, and the
ground was Tiven with gorges and ravines, all of them choked with rank
thorny undergrowth.

Come on, Annalisa ordered.  We haven't got Much time.

A it will be dark soon.  She ducked under a branch and started down the
slope.

Hey" Shasa cautioned her.  You can't go down there.

You'll hurt Yourself.

"You're scared, she mocked.

I am not.  The taunt goaded him onto the rock-strewn slope and they
climbed downwards.  Once Annalisa paused to pluck a spray of yellow
flowers from a thorn bush, then they went on, helping each other over
the bad places, crouching under the thorn branches, teetering on the
boulders and hopping across the gaps like a pair of rock rabbits until
they

reached the bottom of the ravine and paused to catch their breath.

Shasa bent backwards from the waist and stared up at the cliff that
towered above them, sheer as a fortress wall, but Annalisa tugged his
arm to gain his attention.

It's a secret.  You have to swear an oath not to tell anybody,
especially not my brother.  All right, I swear.  You have to do it
properly.  Lift your right hand and put the other on your heart.
Solemnly she led him through the oath, and then took his hand and drew
him to a lichenvered pile of boulders.  Kneel down!  He obeyed, and she
carefully pulled aside a leafy branch that screened a niche amongst the
boulders.  Shasa gasped and pulled back, coming half to his feet. The
niche was shaped like a shrine.  There was a collection of empty glass
jars arranged on the floor but the wild flowers in them had withered and
turned brown.  Beyond the floral offering a pile of white bones had been
carefully arranged in a small pyrafind and Surmounting this was a human
skull, with gaping eye sockets and yellow teeth.

Who is it" Shasa whispered, his eyes wide with superstitious awe.

The witch of the mountain.  Annalisa took his hand.  I found her bones
lying here, and I made this magic place.  How do you know she's a witch?
Shasa had a bad attack of the creeps by now, and his whisper shook and
cracked.

She told me so.  That raised such frightful images that he did not
question her further; skulls and bones were creepy enough, voices from
beyond were a hundred times worse, and the hairs at the back of- his
neck and along his arms itched and stood erect.  lie watched while she
changed the withered flowers for the fresh yellow acacia blossom and
then sat back on her ankles and took his hand again.

The witch will grant you one wish, she whispered, and he thought about
it.

What do you want?  she tugged his hand, Can I wish for anything?  Yes,
anything, she nodded, watching his face eagerly.

Staring at the bleached skull his awe faded; he was suddenly aware of a
new sensation.  Something seemed to reach out to him, a sensation of
warmth and familiar comfort that he had known before only as an infant
when his mother held him to her bosom.

There were still small pieces of dried scalp attached to the dome of the
skull, like brown parchment, and tiny peppercorns of black hair, soft
furry little balls like those on the head of the tame Bushman who herded
the milk cows at the way station on the road from Windhoek.

Anything?  he repeated.  I can wish for anything?  Yes, anything you
want.  Annalisa leaned against his side, and she was soft and warm and
her body smelled of fresh sweet young sweat.

Shasa leaned forward and touched the skull on its white bony forehead,
and the sense of warmth and comfort was stronger.  He was aware of a
benign feeling, of love, that was not too strong a word, yes, of love,
as though he were being overlooked by someone or something that cared
for him very deeply.

I wish, he said softly, almost dreamily, I wish for enormous power.  He
imagined a prickling sensation in the fingertips that touched the skull,
like the discharge of static electricity, and he jerked his hand away
sharply.

Annalisa exclaimed in exasperation and pulled her body away from him at
the same time.  That's a silly wish.  She was dearly piqued, and he
could not understand why.  You are a stupid boy, and the witch won't
grant a stupid wish like that.  She flounced to her feet and drew the
screening branch over the niche.  It's late.  We must go back. Shasa did
not want to leave this place, and he lingered.

Annalisa called from up the slope.  Come on, it will be dark in an hour.
When he reached the path again she was sitting propped against the rock
wall of the cliff facing him.

I've hurt myself.  She said it like an accusation.  They were both
flushed and panting from the climb.

I'm sorry, he gasped.  How did you hurt yourself?  She pulled the hem of
her skirt halfway up her thigh.  One of the red-tipped wait-a-bit thorns
had rowelled her, raising a long red scratch across the smooth buttery
skin of her inner thigh.  It had barely broken the skin, but a line of
blood droplets had welled up, like a necklace of tiny bright rubies.

He stared at it as though mesmerized and she sank back against the rock,
lifted her knees and spread her thighs, holding the bunch of her skirts
into her crotch.

Put some spit on it, she ordered.

Obediently he knelt between her feet and wet his forefinger.

,your finger is dirty, she admonished him.

what shall I do then?  He was at a loss.

With your tongue, put spit on it with your tongue.  He leaned forward
and touched the wound with the tip of his tongue.  Her blood had a
strange salty metallic taste as he licked it.

She placed one hand on the nape of his neck and stroked the dense dark
curl of his hair.

Yes, like that, clean it, she murmured.  Her fingers twisted into his
hair and she held his head, pressing his face to her skin, and then
deliberately directed him higher, raising her skirt slowly with her free
hand as his mouth travelled upwards.

Then peering between the spread of her thighs, he saw that she was
sitting on a piece of her clothing, a scrap of white cloth printed with
pink roses, and with a tingle of shock he realized that in the few
minutes that she had been alone she must have removed her panties and
spread them as a cushion on the soft moss-covered earth.  She was naked
under the skirt.

Shasa woke with a start and he could not think where he was.  The ground
was hard under his back and a pebble was digging into his shoulder,
there was a weight across his chest making it difficult for him to
breathe.  He was cold, and it was dark.  Prester John stamped and
snorted and he saw the

4i pony's head silhouetted against the stars.

Suddenly he remembered.  Annalisa's leg was thrown over his and her face
was against his throat; she sprawled half across his chest. He pushed
her off so violently that she woke with a cry.

It's dark!  he said stupidly.  They'll be out looking for us by now!  He
tried to stand but his breeches were around his knees.

He remembered vividly the practised way that she had unbuttoned them and
worked them over his hips.  He yanked them up and fumbled with his fly.

We've got to get back.  My mother- Annalisa was on her feet beside him,
hopping on one leg as she tried to find the opening of her panties with
her bare foot.  Shasa looked at the stars.  Orion was on the horizon.

It's after nine o'clock, he said gloomily.

You should have stayed awake, she whined, and put a hand on his shoulder
to steady herself.  My Pa will lather me.  He said next time he'd kill
me.  Shasa shrugged off her hand.  He wanted to get away from her yet he
knew he could not.

It was your fault.  She stooped and grabbed her panties at the ankles,
hoisted them to her waist and then settled her skirts over them.  I'm
going to tell Pa.  that it was your fault.

He'll take the sjambok to me this time.  Oh!  he'll whop the skin off
me.  Shasa unhitched the pony and his hands were shaking.  He could not
think clearly, he was still half asleep and groggy.

I won't let him.  His gallantry was half-hearted and unconvincing.  I
won't let him hurt you.  It seemed only to infuriate her.  What can you
do?  You're only a baby.  The word triggered something else in her mind.

What will happen if you've given me a baby, hey?  It will be

a bastard; did you think of that while you were sticking that thing of
yours into me?  she demanded waspishly.

Shasa was stung by the unfairness of her accusation.  You showed me how.
I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't.  A fat lot of good that's going
to do us., She was weeping now.  I wish we could just run away., The
notion held a definite appeal for Shasa, and he discarded it only
reluctantly.  Come on, he said, and boosted her up onto Prester John's
back and then swung up behind her.

They saw the torches of the search parties down on the plain below them
as they turned the shoulder of the mountain.  There were headlights on
the road also, moving slowly, obviously searching the verges, and
faintly they heard the shouts of the searchers, calling for them as they
moved about in the forest far below.

My Pa's going to kill me this time.  He'll know what we've been doing,
she snuffled and sobbed and her self-pity irritated him.  He had long
ago given up trying to comfort her.

How will he know?  he snapped.  He wasn't there.  You don't think you
were the first one I've done it with, she demanded, seeking to injure
him.  I've done it with plenty of others, and Pa has caught me twice.
Oh, he'll know all right., At the thought of her performing those
strangely marvelous tricks of hers with others, Shasa felt a hot rush of
jealousy which was gradually cooled by reason.

Well!  he pointed out.  If he knows about all the others, it isn't going
to do you much good to try to put the blame on me.  She had trapped
herself and she let out another brokenhearted sob, and was still weeping
theatrically when they met the search party coming on foot along the
pipe track.

Shasa and Annalisa.  sat on opposite sides of the bungalow's
drawing-room, instinctively keeping as far from each other as possible.

As they heard the Daimler pull up outside in a flare of headlights and
crunch of gravel, Annalisa began to weep again, snuffling and rubbing
her eyes to work up a few more tears.

They heard Centaine's quick light tread across the verandah, followed by
Twenty-man-jones more deliberate storklike steps.

Shasa stood up and held his hands in front of him in the attitude of the
penitent as Centaine stopped in the doorway.

She was dressed in jodhpurs and riding-boots and a tweed hacking jacket,
with a yellow scarf knotted at her throat.

She was flushed, and relieved and furious as an avenging angel.

Annahsa saw her face and let out a howl of anguish, only half acting.

Shut your mouth, girl, Centaine told her quietly.  Or I'll see you get
good reason to blubber.  She turned to Shasa.

Are either of you hurt?  No, Mater.  He hung his head.

Prester John?  Oh, he's in good fettle.  So, that's it then. She did not
have to elaborate.  Dr Twenty-man-Jones, will you take this young lady
down to her father?  I have no doubt that he will know how to deal with
her.  Centaine had spoken briefly to the father only an hour before, big
and bald and paunchy with tattoos on his muscled arms, belligerent and
red-eyed, reeking of cheap brandy and opening and closing his hairy paws
as he mouthed his intentions towards his only daughter.

Twenty-man-Jones took the girl by her wrist, pulled her to her feet and
led her snivelling towards the door.  As he passed Centaine, her
expression softened and she touched his arm.

What ever would I do without you, Dr Twenty-man-jones?  she asked
quietly.

I suspect that you would get along very well on your own, Mrs Courtney,
but I'm glad I could help.  He dragged Annalisa from the room and they
heard the whirr of the Daimler's engine.

Centaine's expression hardened again and she turned back to Shasa.

He fidgeted under her scrutiny.

You've been disobedient, she told him.  I warned you away from that
little poule.  Yes, Mater.  She's been with half the men on the mine.
We'll have to take you to a doctor when we get back to Windhoek.  He
shuddered and glanced down at himself involuntarily at the thought of a
host of disgusting microbes crawling over his most intimate flesh.

Disobedience is bad enough, but what have you done that is truly
unforgivable?  she demanded.

Shasa could think of at least a dozen trespasses without really
extending himself.

You've been stupid, Centaine said.  You've been stupid enough to get
caught out.  That is the worst sin.  You've made a laughing stock of
yourself with everybody on the mine.

How will you ever be able to lead and command when you cheapen yourself
like this?  I didn't think of that, Mater.  I didn't think of anything
much.  It just all sort of happened.  Well, think of it now, she told
him.  While you are taking a long hot bath with half a bottle of Lysol
in it, think hard about it.  Goodnight.  Goodnight, Mater. He came to
her and after a moment she offered her cheek.  I'm sorry, Mater.  He
kissed her cheek.  I'm sorry I made you ashamed of me.  She wanted to
throw her arms around him and pull his beautiful beloved head to her and
hold him hard and tell him that she would never be ashamed of him.

Goodnight, Shasa, she said, standing cool and erect until he left the
room and she heard his footsteps drag disconsolately down the passage.
Then her shoulders slumped.

Oh, my darling, oh my baby, she whispered.  Suddenly, for the first time
in many years, she felt the need for an opiate.  She crossed quickly to
the massive stinkwood cabinet and poured cognac from one of the heavy
decanters and took a mouthful.  The spirit was peppery on her tongue and
the fumes brought tears to her eyes.  She swallowed it down and set the
glass aside.

That isn't going to help much, she decided, and crossed to her desk. She
sat down in the wingbacked buttoned leather chair and she felt small and
frail and vulnerable.  For Centaine, it was an alien emotion and it
frightened her.

It's happened, she whispered.  He is becoming a man.  Suddenly she hated
the girl.  The dirty little harlot.  He isn't ready for that yet.  Too
early she has let the demon out, the demon of his de Thiry blood.  She
was intimate with that same demon, for it had plagued her all her life.
That wild A passionate de Thiry blood.

Oh my darling.  She was going to lose some part of him now, had already
lost it, she realized.  Loneliness came to her like a ravening beast
that had lain in ambush for her all these years.

There had only been two men who might have assuaged that loneliness.
Shasa's father had died in his frail machine of canvas and wood while
she had stood by helplessly and watched him blacken and burn.  The other
man had placed himself beyond her reach for ever with one brutal
senseless act.  Michael Courtney and Lothar De La Rey, both dead to her
now.

Since then there had been lovers, many lovers, brief transient affairs
experienced only at the level of the flesh, a mere antidote for the boil
of her blood.  None of them had been allowed to pass into that deep
place of her soul.  But now the beast of loneliness burst through those
guarded portals and laid waste her secret places.  1A If only there was
someone, she lamented as she had done only once before in her life, when
she lay upon the child-bed on which she have given birth to Lothar De La
Rey's goldheaded bastard.  if only there was somebody I could love and
who would love me in return.  She leaned forward in the big leather
chair and picked up the silver-framed photograph, the photograph that
she carried with her wherever she travelled, and studied the face of the
young man in the centre of the group of fliers.

For the

first time she realized that over the years the picture had faded and
yellowed and the features of Michael Courtney, Shasa's father, had
blurred.  She stared at the handsome young face and tried desperately to
make the picture clearer and crisper in her own memory, but it seemed to
smear and recede even further from her.

Oh Michael!  she whispered.  It was all so long ago.  Forgive me. Please
forgive me.  I have tried to be strong and brave.

I've tried for your sake and the sake of your son, but She set the frame
back upon the desk and crossed to the window.  She stared out into the
darkness.  I'm going to lose my baby, she thought.  And then one day I
will be alone and old and ugly, and I'm afraid.  She found she was
shivering, hugging her own arms, but then her reaction was swift and
unequivocal.

There is no time for weakness and self-pity on the journey that you have
chosen.  She steeled herself, standing small and erect and alone in the
silent darkened house.  You have to go on.  There is no turning back, no
faltering, you have to go on to the end.  Where is Stoffel Botha?  Shasa
demanded of the mill house supervisor when the mine hooter blew to
signal the beginning of the lunch hour.  Why isn't he here?  Who knows?
The supervisor shrugged.  I had a note from the main office saying he
wasn't coming.  They didn't tell me why.  Perhaps he has been fired.  I
don't know.  I don't care, he was a cocky little bastard, anyway.  And
for the rest of the shift Shasa tried to suppress his feeling of guilt
by concentrating on the run of ore through the thundering rollers.

When the final hooter blew, and the cry of Shahile!  It has struck!  was
shouted from one gang of black labourers to the next, Shasa mounted
Prester John and turned his head towards the avenue of cottages in which
Annalisa's family lived.  He knew he was risking his mother's wrath, but
a defiant sense of chivalry urged him on.  He had to find out how much
damage and unhappiness he had caused.

However, at the gates of the mill house he was distracted.

Moses, the boss-boy from the weathering grounds, stepped in front of
Prester John and took his head.

I see you, Good Water, he greeted Shasa in his soft deep voice.

Oh Moses.  Shasa smiled with pleasure, his other troubles forgotten for
the moment.  I was going to visit you.  I have brought your book.  The
Ovambo handed the thick copy of History of England up to him.

You couldn't possibly have read it, Shasa protested.  Not so soon.  it
took even me months.  I will never read it, Good Water.  I am leaving
the H'ani Mine.  I go with the trucks to Windhoek tomorrow morning.  Oh
no!  Shasa swung down out of the saddle and gripped his arm.  Why do you
want to go, Moses?  Shasa feigned ignorance out of a sense of his guilt
and complicity.

It is not for me to want or not to want.  The tall boss-boy shrugged.
Many men are leaving on the trucks tomorrow.

Doctela has chosen them, and the lady your mother has explained the
reason and given us a month's wages.  A man like me does not ask
questions, Good Water.  He smiled, a sad bitter grimace.  Here is your
book.  Keep it.  Shasa pushed it back.  It is my gift to you.  Very
well, Good Water.  I will keep it to remind me of you.  Stay in peace.
He turned away.

Moses Shasa called him back and then could find 1, nothing to say.  He
thrust out his hand impulsively and the Ovambo stepped back from it.  A
white man and a black man did not shake hands.

Go in peace, Shasa insisted, and Moses glanced around almost furtively
before he accepted the grip.  His skin was strangely cool. Shasa
wondered if all black skin was like that.

We are friends, Shasa said, prolonging the contact.  We are, aren't we?
I do not know.

What do you mean?  I do not know if it is possible for us to be friends.
Gently he freed his hand and turned away.  He did not look back at Shasa
as he skirted the security fence and went down to the compound.

The convoy of heavy trucks ground across the plains, keeping open
intervals to avoid the dust thrown up by the receding vehicle.  The dust
rose in a feathery spray, high in p the still heated air like the yellow
smoke from a bush fire burning on a wide front.

Gerhard Fourie, in the lead truck, slumped at the wheel with his belly
hanging into his lap; it had forced open the buttons of his shirt,
exposing the hairy pit of his navel.  Every few seconds he glanced up
from the road to the rearview mirror above his head.

The back of the truck was piled with the baggage and furniture of the
families, both black and white, that had been laid off from the mine. On
top of this load were perched the unfortunate owners.  The women had
knotted scarves over their hair for the dust; they clutched their young
children as the trucks bounced and swayed over the uneven tracks.  The
elder children had made nests for themselves amongst the baggage.

Fourie reached up and readjusted the mirror slightly, centring the image
of the girl behind him.  She was wedged between an old tea chest and a
shabby suitcase of imitation leather.  She had propped a blanket roll
behind her back and she was dozing, her streaky blond head nodding and
lolling to the truck's motion.  One knee was slightly raised, her short
skirt rucked up and as she fell asleep so her knee dropped to one side
and Fourie caught a glimpse of her underpants, patterned with pink
roses, wedged between those smooth young thighs.  Then the girl jerked
awake and closed her legs and rolled on her side.

Fourie was sweating, not merely from the heat; drops of it glinted in
the dark unshaven stubble that covered his jowls.  He took the stub of
cigarette from between his lips with shaky fingers and inspected it.

Saliva had soaked through the rice-paper and stained it with yellow
tobacco juice.  He flicked it out of the side window and lit another,
driving with one hand and watching the mirror, waiting for the girl to
move again.  He had sampled that young flesh, he knew how sweet and warm
and available it was, and he wanted it again with a sickness of desire.
He was prepared to take any risk for just another taste of it.

Ahead of him the clump of grey camel-thorn trees swam out of the heat
mirage.  He had travelled this road so often that the journey had its
landmarks and rituals.  He checked his pocket watch and grunted. They
were twenty minutes late on this stage.  But then the trucks were all
overloaded with this throng of newly unemployed and their pathetic
possessions.

He pulled the truck off the track beside the trees and climbed stiffly
out onto the running-board and shouted: All right, everybody. Pinkie
pause.  Women on the left, men on the right.  Anybody who isn't back in
ten minutes gets left behind.  He was the first back to the truck, and
he busied himself at the left-hand rear wheel, making a show of checking
the valve but watching for the girl.

She came out from amongst the trees, smoothing her skirts.  She looked
petulant and hot and grubby with floury dust.  But when she saw Fourie
watching her, she tossed her head arid swung her tight little buttocks
and ostentatiously ignored him.

Annalisa, he whispered, as she raised one bare foot to climb over the
tailboard of the truck beside him.

Your mother's, Gerhard Fourie!  she hissed back at him.

You just leave me alone, or I'll tell my Pa!  At any other time she
might have responded more amiably, but her thighs and buttocks and the
small of her back were still crisscrossed with purple weals from where
her father had lambasted her.  Temporarily she had lost interest in the
male sex.

,I want to talk to you, Fourie insisted.

Talk, ha!  I know what you want.  Meet me outside the camp tonight, he
pleaded.

Your bollocks in a barrel.  She jumped up into the truck and his stomach
turned over as he saw the full length of those slim brown legs.

Annalisa, I'll give you money.  He was desperate; the sickness was
burning him up.

Armalisa paused and looked down at him thoughtfully.

His offer was a revelation that opened a chink into a new world of
fascinating possibilities.  Up to that moment it had never occurred to
her that a man might give her money to do something which she enjoyed
more than eating or sleeping.

How much?  she asked with interest.

A pound, he offered.

It was a great deal of money, more than she had ever had in her hand at
any one time, but her mercenary instinct was aroused, she wanted to see
how far this could be taken.  So she tossed her head and flounced,
watching him out of the corner of her eye.

Two pounds, Fourie whispered urgently, and Annalisa's spirits soared.
Two whole pounds!  She felt bold and pretty and borne along by good
fortune.  The stripes across her back and legs were fading.  She slanted
her eyes in that sly knowing expression that maddened him and she saw
the sweat start on his chin and his lower lip trembled.

It emboldened her even further, and she drew breath and held it, and
then whispered daringly: Five pounds!  She ran the tip of her tongue
around her lips, shocked by her own courage in naming such an enormous
sum.  It was almost as much as her father earned in a week.

Fourie blanched and wavered.  Three, he blurted, but she sensed how
close he was to agreement and she drew back affronted.

You are a smelly old man.  She filled her voice with scorn and turned
away.

All right!  All right!  he capitulated.  Five pounds.  She grinned at
him victoriously.  She had discovered and entered a new world of endless
riches and pleasure.

She put the tip of her finger in her mouth.  And if you want that too,
it will cost you another pound.  There were no limits to her daring now.

The moon was only days from full and it washed the desert with molten
platinum, while the shadows along the ravine walls were leaden blue
smudges.  The camp sounds carried faintly along the ravine, somebody was
chopping firewood, a bucket clanged and the women's voices at the
cooking fires were like bird sounds heard from afar.  Closer at hand a
pair of prowling jackal cried, the odours from the cooking pots exciting
them into their wild, wailing, almost agonized chorus.

Fourie squatted against the wall of the ravine and lit a cigarette,
watching the ravine along which the girl must come.  The flare of the
match illuminated his fleshy unshaven features and he was so intent that
he was totally unaware of the predatory eyes that watched him out of the
blue moon shadows close by.  His whole existence centred on the arrival
of the girl and already he was breathing with eager little grunts of
anticipation.

She was like a wraith in the moonlight, silvery and ethereal, and he
heaved himself to his feet and crushed out the cigarette.

Annalisa!  he called, his voice low and quivering with the need of her.

She stopped just out of reach before him, and when he lunged for her she
danced away lightly and laughed with a mocking tinkle.

Five pounds, Meneer, she reminded him, and drew nearer as he fumbled the
crumpled bank notes out of his back pocket.  She took them and held them
up to the moon.  Then, satisfied, tucked them away in her clothing and
stepped boldly up to him.

He seized her around the waist and covered her mouth with his wet lips.
She broke away at last, laughing breathlessly, and held his wrist as he
reached under her skirt.

Do you want the other pound's worther It's too much, he panted. 'I
haven't got that much.  Ten shillings, then, she offered, and touched
the front of his body with a small cunning hand.

Half a crown, he gasped.  That's all I have got.  And she stared at him,
still touching him, and saw she could get no MOre out of him.

All right, give it to me, she agreed, and hid the coin before she went
down on her knees in front of him as though for his blessing.  He placed
both hands on her curly sun-streaked head and drew her towards him,
bowing his head over her and then closing his eyes.

Something hard was thrust into his ribs from behind with such force that
the wind was driven from his lungs and a voice grated in his ear.

Tell the little bitch to disappear.  The voice was low and dangerous and
dreadfully familiar.

The girl leaped to her feet, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.
She stared for an instant over Fourie's shoulder with wide terrified
eyes, then whirled and raced up the ravine towards the camp on long
flying legs.

Fourie fumbled clumsily with his clothing and turned to face the man who
stood behind him with the Mauser rifle pointed at his belly.

De La Rey!  he blurted.

Were you expecting somebody else?  No!  No!  Fourie shook his head
wildly.  It's just, so soon.  Since last they had met Fourie had had
time to repent of their bargain.  Cowardice had won the long battle over
avarice, and because he wanted it so he had convinced himself that
Lothar De La Rey's scheme was like so many others that he had dreamed
about, merely one of those fantasies with which those for ever doomed to
poverty and futile labour consoled themselves.

He had expected, and hoped, never to hear of Lothar De La Rey again. But
now he stood before him, tall and deadly with his head shining like a
beacon in the moonlight and topaz lights glinting in those leopard eyes.

Soon?  Lothar asked.  So soon?  It's been weeks, my old and dear friend.
It all took longer to arrange than I expected.  Then Lothar's voice
hardened as he asked, Have you taken the diamond shipment into Windhoek
yet?  No, not yet, Fourie broke off, and silently reviled himself.  That
would have been his escape.  He should have said Yes! I took it in
myself last week.  But it was done, and miserably he hung his head and
concentrated on fastening the last buttons of his breeches.  Those few
words spoken too hastily might yet cost him a lifetime in prison and he
was afraid.

When will the shipment go in?  Lothar placed the muzzle of the Mauser
under Fourie's chin and lifted his face to the moon.  He wanted to watch
the man's eyes.  He did not trust him.

They have delayed it.  I don't know how long.  I heard some rumour that
they have to send in a big package of stones.  Why? Lothar asked softly,
and Fourie shrugged.

I just heard it will be a big package.  As I warned you, it's because
they are going to close the mine.  Lothar watched his face carefully. He
sensed that the man was wavering.  He had to steel him. 'It will be the
last shipment, and then you will be out of work.  just like those poor
bastards you have on your trucks.  Fourie nodded glumly.  Yes, they have
fired them.  It will be you next, old friend.  And you told me what a
good family man you are, how much you love your family.  Then no more
money to feed your children, no money to clothe them, not even a few
pounds to pay the little girls for their clever tricks.  Man, you
mustn't talk like that., ,YOU do what we agreed and there will be all
the little girls you want, any way you want them.  Don't talk like that.
It's dirty, man.  You know the arrangements.  You know what to do just
as soon as they tell you when the shipment is going in.  Fourie nodded
but Lothar insisted.  Tell me about it.

Repeat it to me.  And he listened while Fourie reluctantly recited his
instructions, correcting him once on a detail, and at last smiled with
satisfaction.

Don't let us down, old friend.  I do not like to be disappointed He
leaned close to Fourie and stared into his eyes, then quite suddenly
turned and slipped away into the moon shadows.

Fourie shuddered and stumbled away up the ravine towards the camp like a
drunkard.  He was almost there before he remembered that the girl had
his money but had not completed her part of the bargain.  He wondered if
he could talk her into doing so at the next camp, and then morosely
decided that his chances were not very good.  Yet somehow it didn't seem
so urgent now.  The ice that Lothar De La Rey had injected into his
blood seemed to have settled in his loins.

They rode through the open forest below the cliffs, and their mood was
carefree and gay with anticipation of the days that lay ahead.

Shasa rode Prester John, with the 7mm Marmlicher sporting rifle in the
leather scabbard under his left knee.  It was a beautiful weapon, the
butt and foregrip in choice selected walnut and the blue steel engraved
and inlaid with silver and pure gold: hunting scenes exquisitely
rendered and Shasahs name scripted in precious metal.  The rifle had
been a fourteenth birthday present from his grandfather.

Centaine rode her grey stallion, a magnificent animal.  His hide was
marbled with black in a lacy pattern across his shoulders and croup,
while his mane and muzzle and eye patches were also shiny jet black, in
startling contrast to the snowy hide beneath.  She Called him Nuage,
Cloud, after a stallion that her father had given her when she was a
girl.

Centaine wore an Australian cattleman's wide-brimmed hat and a kudu-skin
gilet over her shirt.  There was a yellow silk scarf knotted loosely at
her throat, and a sparkle in her eyes.

,oh, Shasa, I feel like a schoolgirl playing hookey!  We've got two
whole days to ourselves.  Race you to the spring!  he challenged her,
but Prester John was no match for Nuage and when they reached the spring
Centaine had already dismounted and was holding the stallion's head to
prevent him bloating himself with water.

They remounted and rode on deeper into the wilderness of the Kalahari.
The further they went from the mine the less had been the intrusion of
human presence, and the wild life more abundant and confident.

Centaine had been trained in the ways of the wild by the finest of all
instructors, the wild Bushmen of the San, and she had lost none of her
skills.  It was not only the larger game that engaged her.  She pointed
out a pair of quaint little bat-eared foxes that Shasa would have
missed.  They were hunting grasshoppers in the sparse silver grass,
pricking their enormous ears as they crept forward in a pantomime of
stealth before the heroic leap onto their formidable prey.

They laid their tell-tale ears against their fluffy necks and flattened
against the earth as the horses passed.

They startled a yellow sand-cat from an ant-bear burrow, and so intent
was the big cat on its escape that it ran headlong into the sticky
yellow web of a crab spider.  The animal's comical efforts to wipe the
web from its face with both front paws while at the same time continuing
its flight had them both reeling in the saddle.

Once in the middle of the afternoon they spotted a herd of stately
gemsbok trotting in single file across the horizon.

They held their heads high, the long straight slender horns transformed
by distance and the angle of view into the single straight horn of the
unicorn.  The mirage turned them into strange long-legged monsters and
then swallowed them up completely.

As the lowering sun painted the desert with shadow and fresh colour,
Centaine picked out another small herd of spring-bok and pointed out a
plump young ram to Shasa.  We are only half a mile from camp and we need
our dinner.  Eagerly Shasa drew the Mannlicher from its scabbard.

Cleanly!  she cautioned him.  It troubled her a little to see how he
enjoyed the chase.

She stayed back and watched him dismount.  Using Prester John as a
stalking horse, Shasa angled in towards the herd.

Prester John understood his role and kept himself between Shasa and the
game, even pausing to graze when the springbok became restless, only
moving closer when they had settled down again.

At two hundred paces Shasa squatted and braced his elbows on his knees,
and Centaine felt a rush of relief as the springbok ram dropped
instantly to the shot.  She had once seen Lothar De La Rey gut shoot one
of the lovely gazelle.  The memory still haunted her.

When she rode up she saw that Shasa had hit the animal cleanly behind
the shoulder, and the bullet had passed through the heart.  She watched
critically as Shasa dressed out the game the way Sir Garry had taught
him.

Keep all the offal, she told him.  The servants love the tripes.  So he
wrapped it in the wet skin and bundled the carcass up onto Prester
John's back and tied it behind the saddle.

The camp was at the foot of the hills, below a seep well m the cliff
which provided water.  The previous day Centaine had sent three servants
ahead with the pack horses and the camp was comfortable and secure.

They dined on grilled kebabs of liver, kidneys and heart, larded with
laces of fat from the springbok's belly cavity.

Then they sat late at the fire, drinking coffee that tasted of wood
smoke, talking quietly and watching the moon rise.

in the dawn they rode out, bundled in sheepskin jackets against the
chill.  They had not gone a mile before Centaine pulled up Nuage's head
and leaned far out of the saddle to examine the earth.

What is it, Mater?  Shasa was always sensitive to every nuance of her
moods, and he saw how excited she was.

Come quickly, cheri.  She pointed out the tracks in the soft earth. What
do you make of these?  Shasa swung down from the saddle and stooped over
the sign.

Human beings?  He was puzzled.  But so small.  Children?  He looked up
at her, and her shining expression gave him the clue.

Bushmen!  he exclaimed.  Wild Bushmen.  Oh yes, she laughed.  A pair of
hunters.  They are after a giraffe.  Look!  Their tracks are overlaying
those of the quarry., Can we follow them, Mater?  Can we? Now Shasa was
as excited as she was.

Centaine agreed.  Their spoor is only a day old.  We can catch them if
we hurry.  Centaine rode on the spoor with Shasa trailing behind her,
careful not to spoil the sign.  He had never seen her work like this,
taking it at a canter over the bad places where even his sharp young
eyes could see nothing.

Look, a Bushman toothbrush.  She pointed to a fresh twig, the end chewed
to a brush, that lay discarded beside the spoor and they rode on.

This is where they first spotted the giraffe.  How do you know that?
They have strung their bows.  There are the marks of the butts.  The
little men had pressed the tips of their bows against the earth to arch
them.

Look, Shasa, now they have begun stalking.  He could see no change in
the spoor and said so.

Shorter and stealthier paces, weight forward on the toes, she explained,
and then, a few hundred paces farther, Here they went down on their
bellies, snake-crawling in for the kill.  Here they went up on their
knees to loose their arrows, and here they leapt to their feet to watch
them strike.  Twenty paces farther on she exclaimed, See how close they
were to the quarry.  This is where the giraffe felt the sting of the
barbs and started to gallop, look how the hunters followed at a run,
waiting for the poison of the arrows to take effect.  They galloped
along the line of the chase until Centaine rose in the stirrups and
pointed ahead.

Vultures!  Four or five miles ahead the blue of the heavens was dusted
with a fine cloud of black specks.  The cloud turned in slow vortex,
high above the earth.

Slowly now, chgri, Centaine cautioned him.  It could be dangerous if we
frighten and panic them.  They brought the horses down to a walk and
rode up slowly to the site of the kill.

The giraffe's huge carcass, partly flayed and dismembered, lay on its
side.  Against the surrounding thorn bushes crude sun-shelters of thatch
had been erected, and the bushes were festooned with strips of meat and
ribbons of entrails set out to dry in the sun, the branches bowed under
their weight.

The area was widely trodden by small feet.

They have brought the women and children to help cut up and carry,
Centaine said.

Phew!  It pongs terribly!  Shasa screwed up his nose.

Where are they, anyway?  Hiding.  Centaine said.  They saw us coming
probably from five miles away.  She stood up in the stirrups and swept
the broad-brimmed hat from her head to show her face more clearly, and
she called out in a strange guttural clicking tongue, turning slowly and
repeating the message to every quarter of the silent brooding desert
that encompassed them.

It's creepy.  Shasa shivered involuntarily in the bright sunlight.  Are
you sure they are still here?  They're watching us. They aren't in a
hurry., Then a man rose out of the earth so close to them that the
stallion shied and nodded his head nervously.  The man wore only a
loincloth of animal skin.  He was a small, yet perfectly formed, with
elegant and graceful limbs built for running.  Hard muscle lay flat down
his chest and sculpted his naked belly into the same ripples that the
ebb tide leaves on a sandy beach.

He held his head proudly, and though he was clean-shaven, it was evident
he was in the full flowering of his manhood.

His eyes had a Mongolian slant to the corners and his skin glowed with a
marvelous amber colour seeming almost translucent in the sunlight.

He lifted his right hand in a greeting and a sign of peace and he
called, birdlike and high, I see you, Nam Child, using Centaine's
Bushman name, and she cried aloud for joy.

I see you also, Kwi!  Who is with you?  the bushman demanded.

This is my son, Good Water.  As I told you when first we met, he was
born in the holy place of your people and O'wa was his adopted
grandfather and H'ani was his grandmother.  Kwi, the Bushman, turned and
called out into the empty desert.  This is the truth, oh people of the
San.  This woman is Nam Child, our friend, and the boy is he of the
legend.

Greet them Out of the seemingly barren earth against which they had
hidden rose the little golden people of the San.  With Kwi there were
twelve of them; two men, Kwi and his brother Fat Kwi, their wives and
the naked children.  They had hidden with all the art of wild creatures,
but now they crowded forward chirruping and clicking and laughing and
Centaine swung down from the saddle to meet and embrace them, greeting
each of them by name and finally picking up two of the toddlers and
holding one on each hip.

How do you know them so well, Mater?  Shasa wanted to know.

Kwi and his brother are related to O'wa, your adopted Bushman
grandfather.  I first met them when you were very small and we were
developing the H'ani Mine.  These are their hunting grounds.  They
passed the rest of that day with the clan, and when it was time to leave
Centaine gave each of the women a handful of brass 7mm cartridges and
they shrieked with joy and danced their thanks.  The cartridges would be
strung with ostrich shell beads into necklaces that would make them the
envy of every other San woman they met in their wandering. Shasa gave
Kwi his ivory-handled hunting knife and the little man tried the edge
with his thumb and grunted with wonder as the skin parted, and he
displayed the bloody thumb proudly to each of the women.

What a weapon I have now.  Fat Kwi got Centaine's belt, and they left
him studying the reflection of his own face in the polished brass
buckle.

If you wish to visit us again, Kwi called after them, we will be at the
mongongo tree grove near O'chee Pan until the rains break. 'They are so
happy with so little, Shasa said, looking back at the tiny dancing
figures.

They are the happiest people in this earth, Centaine agreed. 'But I
wonder for how much longer.  Did you truly live like that, Mater?  Shasa
asked.  Like a Bushman?  Did you really wear skins and eat roots?  So
did you, Shasa.  Or rather you wore nothing at all just like one of
those grubby little scamps.  He frowned with the effort of memory.
Sometimes I dream about a dark .  place, like a cave with water that
smoked.  That was the thermal spring in which we bathed, and in which I
found the first diamond of the H'ani Mine.  I would like to visit it
again, Mater.  That isn't possible.  He saw her mood change.  The spring
was in the centre of the H'ani pipe, in what is now the main excavation
of the mine.  We dug it out and destroyed the spring.  They rode on in
silence for a while.  It was the holy place of the San, and yet,
strangely, they did not seem to resent it when we, she hesitated over
the word and then said it firmly, when we desecrated it.  I wonder why.
I mean if some strange race turned Westminster Abbey into a diamond
mine.  A long time ago I discussed it with Kwi.  He said that the secret
place belonged not to them but the spirits and if the spirits had not
wanted it so they would not have let it happen.  He said the spirits had
lived there so long that perhaps they were bored and wished to move on
to another home, just like the San do.  I still cannot imagine you
living like one of the San women, MatCT.  Not you.  I mean it just goes
beyond imagination.  it was hard, she said softly.  It was hard beyond
the telling of it, beyond imagination, and yet without that tempering
and toughening I would not be what I am now.  You see, Shasa, Out here
in the desert when I had almost reached the breaking point I swore an
oath.  I swore that I, and my son, would never again be so deprived.  I
swore that we would never again have to stiffer those terrible extremes.
But I was not with you then.  Oh yes, she nodded.  Oh yes, you were.  I
carrier] You within me on the Skeleton Coast and through the heat of the
dune lands and you were part of that oath when I made it.  We are
creatures of the desert, my darling, and we will survive and prosper
when others fail and fall.  Remember that.  Remember it well, Shasa, my
darling.  Early the next morning they left the servants to break camp,
load the pack horses and follow them as they turned their horses
regretfully in the direction of the H'ani Mine.  At noon they rested
under a camel-thorn tree, lying against their saddles and lazily
watching the drab little weavers above their heads busily adding to
their communal nest that was already the size of an untidy haystack.
When the heat went out (if the sun they caught the hobbled horses,
tip-saddled and rode along the base of the hills.

Shasa straightened in the saddle suddenly and shaded his eyes with one
hand as he looked up at the hills.

What is it, cheri?  He had recognized the rocky gorge to which Annalisa
had led him.

Something is worrying you, Centaine insisted, and Shasa felt a sudden
urge to lead his mother up the gorge to the shrine of the witch of the
mountain.  He was about to speak when he remembered his oath and he
stopped, teetering uneasily on the brink of betrayal.

Don't you want to tell me," She was watching the struggle on his face.

Mater doesn't Count.  She's like me.  It's not as though I were telling
a stronger, lie justified himself and burst out before his conscience
could overtake him.  There is the skeleton of a Bushman in the gorge tip
there, Mater.  Would you like me to show you," Centaine paled under her
suntan and stared at him.  A Bushman?  she whispered. 'How do you know
it's a Bushman?  The hair is still on the skull, little Bushman
peppercorn curls, just like Kwi and his clan.  How did you find it?
Anna, he broke off and flushed with guilt.

The girl showed you out Centaine helped him.

Yes.  He nodded and hung his head.

Can you find it again?  Centaine's colour had returned, and she seemed
eager and excited as she leaned across and tugged his sleeve.

Yes, I think so, I marked the place.  He pointed up the cliffs. 'That
notch in the rocks and that cleft shaped like an eye.  Show me, Shasa,
she ordered.

We will have to leave the horses and go up on foot., The climb was
onerous, the heat in the gorge fierce and the hooked thorns snatched at
them as they toiled upwards.

It must he about here.  Shasa climbed up on one of the tumbled boulders
and orientated himself.  Perhaps just a little more to the left.  Look
for, pile of rock with a mimosa growing below it.  There is a branch
covering a small niche.

Let's spread out and search.  They picked their way slowly tip the
gorge, moving a little apart to cover more ground and keeping in touch
with whistles and calls when scrub and rocks separated them.

Centaine did not respond to Shasa's whistle, and he

4:

stopped and repeated it, cocking his head for her reply and feeling a
prickle of concern in the silence.

Mater, where are you!  Here!  Her voice was faint, wracked with pain or
some deep emotion and he scrambled over the rock to reach her.

She stood small and forlorn in the sunlight, holding her hat against the
front of her hips.  Moisture sparkled on her cheeks.  He thought it was
sweat, until he saw the soft slow slide of tears down her face.

Mater?  He moved up behind her and realized that she had found the
shrine.

She had drawn the screening branch aside.  The small circle of glass
jars was still in place, the floral offering brown and withered.

Annalisa said the skeleton was a witch, Shasa breathed with
superstitious awe as he stared over Centaine's shoulder at the pathetic
pile of bones and the small neat white skull that surmounted it.

Centaine shook her head, unable to speak.

She said the witch guarded the mountain and that she would grant a wish.
H'ani.  Centaine choked on the name.  My beloved old mother.  Mater!
Shasa seized her shoulders and steadied her as she swayed on her feet.
How do you know?  Centaine leaned against his chest for support but did
not reply.

There could be hundreds of Bushman skeletons in the caves and gorges, he
went on lamely, and she shook her head vehemently.

How can you be certain?  It's her.  Centaine's voice was blurred with
grief.  It's H'ani, the chipped canine tooth, the design of ostrich
shell beads on her loincloth.  Shasa had not noticed the scrap of dry
leather decorated with beads that lay beneath the pile of bones, half
buried in dust.  I don't even need that proof.  I know it's her. I just
know it.  Sit down, Mater.  He lowered her to sit on one of the
lichen-covered boulders.

I'm all right now.  It was just such a shock.  I've searched for her so
often over the years.  I knew where she must be.  She looked around her
vaguely.  O'wa's body must be somewhere close at hand.  She looked up at
the cliff that seemed to hang over them like a cathedral roof.  They
were up there trying to escape when he gunned them down. They must have
fallen close together.  Who shot them, Mater?  She drew a deep breath,
but even then her voice shook as she said his name. 'Lothar.  Lothar De
La Rey!  For an hour longer they searched the bottom and sides of the
gorge, looking for the second skeleton.

It's no good.  Centaine gave up at last.  We will never find him.  Let
him lie undisturbed, Shasa, as he has all these years.  They climbed
down to the little rock shrine, and as they returned they plucked the
wild flowers along the way.

,MY first instinct was to gather her remains and give them a decent
burial, Centaine whispered as she knelt in front of the shrine, 'but
H'an i wasn't a Christian.  These hills were her holy place.  She will
be at peace here.  She arranged the flowers with care and then sat back
on her heels.

I'll see that you are never disturbed, my beloved old grandmother, and I
will come to visit you again.  She stood up and took Shasa's hand.  She
was the finest, gentlest person I have ever known, she said softly.  And
I loved her so.  Still hand in hand they went down to where they had
tethered the horses.

They did not speak again on the ride home, and the sun had set and the
servants were anxious by the time they reached the bungalow.

At breakfast the next morning Centaine was brisk and brittly cheerful,
though there were dark bruised smudges beneath her eyes and the lids
were puffed from weeping.

This is our last week before we must return to Cape Town.  I wish we
could stay here for ever.  For ever is a long time.  You have school
waiting for you, and I have my duties.  We will come back here, you know
that.  He nodded and she went on.  I have arranged for you to spend this
last week working in the washing plant and sorting rooms. You'll enjoy
that.  I guarantee it.  She was right, as usual.  The washing plant was
a pleasant place.  The flow of water over the wiffle boards cooled the
air, and after the unremitting thunder of the mill plant it was
blessedly quiet.  The atmosphere in the long brick room was like the
cathedral calm of a holy place, for here the worship of Mammon and
Adamant reached its climax.

Shasa watched with fascination as the crushings from the mill plant were
carried in on the slowly moving conveyor belt.  The oversize rubble had
been screened off and returned for another crushing under the spinning
rollers.  These were the fines.  They dropped from the end of the moving
belt into the puddling tank, and from there were pushed by the agitating
arms of the revolving sweep down the sloping boards of the wiffle table.

The lighter materials floated away and were run off to the waste dump.
The heavier gravels, containing the diamonds, were carried on through a
series of similar ingenious separating devices until there remained only
the concentrates, one thousandth part of the original gravels.

These were washed over the grease drums.  The drums revolved slowly,
each of them coated with a thick layer of heavy yellow grease. The wet
gravel flowed easily over the surface, but the diamonds were dry.  One
of the diamond's peculiar qualities is its unwettability. Soak it, boil
it as long as you wish, but it remains dry.  Once the dry surface of the
precious stones touched the grease they stuck to it like insects to fly
paper.

The grease drums were locked behind heavy bars and a white supervisor
sat overlooking each of them, watching them constantly. Shasa peered
through the bars for the first time and saw the small miracle occur only
a few inches from his nose: a wild diamond captured and tamed like some
marvelous creature of the desert.  He actually witnessed the moment when
it flowed out of the upper bin in a wet porridge of gravel, and he saw
it touch the grease and adhere precariously to the slick yellow surface,
causing a tiny V-shaped disturbance to the flow like a rock in the ebb
of the tide.  It moved, seeming to lose its grip in the grease for an
instant, and Shasa wanted to thrust out his hand and seize it before it
was for ever lost, but the gaps between the steel bars were too narrow.
Then the diamond stuck fast and breasted the gentle flood of gravel,
sitting up proudly, dry and transparent like a blister on the yellow
skin of a gigantic reptile.  it left him with a feeling of awe, the same
feelings as he had experienced when he witnessed his mare Celeste give
birth to her first foal.

He spent the entire morning passing from one to the other of the huge
yellow drums and then back again down the line, watching the diamonds
sticking on the grease more an d more thickly with each hour that
passed.

At noon the washroom manager came down the line with his four white
assistants, more than were necessary, other than to watch each other and
forestall any opportunity for theft.  With a broad-bladed spatula they
scraped the grease from the drums and collected it in the boiling pot,
then meticulously spread each drum with a fresh coating of yellow
grease.

in the locked de-greasing room at the far end of the building the
manager placed the steel pot on the spirit stove and boiled off the
grease until finally he was left with a pot half full of diamonds, and
Dr Twenty-man-Jones was there to weigh each stone separately and record
it in the leather-bound recovery book.

of course you will notice, Master Shasa, that none of these stones is
smaller than half a carat.  Yes, sir.  Shasa had not thought of that.
What happened to the smaller ones?  The grease table is not infallible,
indeed the stones must have a certain minimum weight to get them to
adhere.  The others, even a few large valuable stones, pass across the
table.  He led Shasa back to the washroom and showed him the trough of
wet gravel that had survived the journey over the drums.  We drain all
the water and reuse it.  Out here water is precious stuff, as you know.
Then all the gravel has to be hand picked.  As he spoke two men emerged
from the door at the end of the room and each scooped a bucket of gravel
from the trough.

Shasa and Twenty-man-jones followed them back through the doorway into a
long narrow room well lit with glass skylights and high windows.

A single long table ran the length of the room, its top clad in a
polished metal sheet.

On each side of the table sat rows of women.  They looked up as the two
men entered and Shasa recognized the wives and daughters of many of the
white workers as well as those of the black boss-boys.  The white women
sat together nearest the door and, with a decent and proper distance
between them, the black women sat separated at the far end of the room.

The bucket boys dumped the damp gravel onto the metal table top and the
women transferred their attention back to it.  Each had a pair of
forceps in one hand and a flat wooden scoop in the other.  They drew a
little of the gravel towards them, spread it with the scoop and then
picked over it swiftly.

It's a job at which the women excel, Twenty-man-Jones explained as they
passed down the line, watching over the stooped shoulders of the women.
They have the patience and the sharp eyes and the dexterity that men
lack.  Shasa saw that they were picking out tiny opaque stones, some as
small as sugar grains, others the size of small green peas, from the
duller mass of gravel.

Those are our bread and butter stones, Twenty-man-Jones remarked. 'They
are used in industry.  The jewellery grade stones that you saw in the
grease room are the strawberry jam and the cream.  When the mine hooter
signalled the end of the day shift, Shasa rode down with
Twenty-man-Jones in the front seat of his Ford from the washing gear to
the office block. On his lap he carried the small locked steel box in
which was the day's recovery.

Centaine met them on the verandah of the administration building and led
them into her office.  Well, did you find it interesting?  she asked,
and smiled at Shasa's hearty response.

It was fascinating, Mater, and we got one real beauty.

Thirty-six carats, it's a jolly great monster of a diamond!  He set the
box on her desk and when Twenty-man-Jones unlocked it he showed her the
diamond as proudly as if he had mined it with his own hands.

It's big, Centaine agreed, but the colour isn't particularly good.
There, hold it to the light.  See, it's as brown as whisky and soda, and
even with the naked eye you can see the inclusions and flaws, those
little black specks inside the stone and that tear through the middle.
Shasa looked crestfallen that his stone was so denigrated and she
laughed and turned to Twenty-man-Jones.  Let's show him some really good
diamonds.  Will you open the vault please, Dr Twenty-man-Jones?
Twenty-man-jones pulled out the bunch of keys from the fob pocket of his
waistcoat and led Shasa down the passage to the steel grille door at the
end.  He opened it with his key and relocked it behind them before they
went down the stairs to the underground vault.  Even from Shasa he
screened the lock with his body as he tumbled the combination and then
used a second key before the thick green Chubb steel door swung
ponderously aside and they went into the strongroom.

The industrial-grade stones are kept in these canisters., He touched
them as he passed.  But we keep the high-grade stuff separately.  He
unlocked the smaller steel door set in the rear wall of the vault and
selected five numbered brown paper packages from the crowded shelf.

These are our best stones.  He handed them to Shasa as a mark of his
trust, and then they went back again, opening and re-locking each door
as they passed through.

Centaine was waiting for them in her office, and when Shasa placed the
packages in front of her she opened the first and gently spread the
contents on her blotter.

Golly gee!  Shasa goggled at the array of large stones glittering with a
soapy sheen.  They are gi-normous!  Let's ask Dr Twenty-man-jones to
give us a dissertation, Centaine suggested, and hiding his gratification
behind a sombre countenance, he picked up one of the gem stones.

Well, Master Shasa, here is a diamond in its natural crystalline
formation, the octahedron of eight faces, count them.  Here is another
in a more complicated crystalline form, the dodecahedron of twelve
faces, while these others are massive and uncrystallized.  See how
rounded and amorphous they are.  Diamonds come in many guises.  He laid
each in Shasa's open palm, and not even his prim monotonous recital
could dull the fascination of this shining treasure.  The diamond has a
perfect cleavage, or as we call it "grain", and can be split in all four
directions, parallel to the octahedral crystal planes.  That's how the
cutters cleave a stone before polishing, Centaine cut in. 'During your
next holidays I will take you to Amsterdam so you can see it done.  This
rather greasy sheen will disappear when the stones are cut and polished.
TWentyman-jones took over again, resenting her intrusion.  Then all
their fire will be revealed as their very high refractive power captures
the light within and dispersive powers separate it into the spectral
colours.  How much does this one weigh? 'Forty-eight carats.  Centaine
consulted the recovery book.

But remember it may lose more than half its weight when it is cut and
polished.  Then how much will it be worth?  Centaine glanced at
Twenty-man-Jones.

A great deal of money, Master Shasa.  Like the true lover of any
beautiful object, gem or painting, horse or statue, he disliked placing
a monetary value upon it, so he hedged and returned to his lecture. 'Now
I want you- to compare the colours of these stones,- Darkness fell
outside the windows, but Centaine switched on the lights and they
huddled over the small pile of stones for another hour, meeting question
with answer and talking quietly and intently until at last
Twenty-man-Jones swept the stones back into their packages and stood up.

"Thou hast been in Eden, the Garden of God," he quoted unexpectedly,
"'every precious stone was thy covering, the sardius, topaz and
diamond....  Thou wast upon the holy mountain of God; thou hast walked
up and down in the midst of the stones of fire." He stopped and looked
selfconscious.  Forgive me.  I don't know what got into me.  Ezekiel?
Centaine asked, smiling fondly at him.

Chapter 28, verses thirteen and fourteen.  He nodded, trying not to show
how impressed he was by her knowledge.

I'll put these away now.  Dr Twenty-man-Jones, Shasa stopped him.  You
didn't answer my question.  How much are these stones worth?  Are you
referring to the entire package?  He looked uncomfortable.  Including
the industrials and boart still in the strong room?  Yes, sir, how much,
sir?  Well, if De Beers accepts them at the same prices as our last
package they will fetch considerably in excess of a million pounds
sterling, he replied sadly.

A million pounds, Shasa repeated, but Centaine saw in his expression
that such a figure was incomprehensible to him, like the astronomical
distances between stars that must be expressed in light years.  He will
learn, she thought, I will teach him.

Remember, Shasa, that is not all profit.  From that sum we will have to
pay all the expenses of the mine over the past months before we can
figure a profit.  And even from that we have to give the tax collectors
their pound of bleeding flesh.  She stood up behind the desk and then
held out her hand to prevent Twenty-man-Jones leaving the room as an
idea struck her.

As you know Shasa and I are going in to Windhoek this coming Friday.
Shasa has to return to school at the end of next week.  I will take the
diamonds into the bank with me in the Daimler, Mrs Courtney!
Twenty-man-jones was horrified.  I couldn't allow that.  A million
pounds worth, good Lord alive.  It would be criminally irresponsible of
me to agree.  He broke off as be saw her expression alter; her mouth
settled into that familiar stubborn shape and the lights of battle
glinted in her eyes.  He knew her so well, like his own daughter, and
loved her as much, he realized that he had made the grievous error of
challenging and forbidding her.

He knew what her reaction must be and he sought desperately to head her
off.

I was thinking only of you, Mrs Courtney.  A million pounds of diamonds
would attract every scavenger and predator, every robber and foot-pad
for a thousand miles around.  It was not my intention to bruit it
abroad.  I will not broadcast it a thousand miles around, she said
coldly.

The insurance, inspiration came to him at last, the insurance will not
cover losses if the package is not sent in by armed convoy. Can you
truly afford to take that chance a loss of a million pounds of revenue
against a few days saved?  He had hit upon the one argument that might
stop her.

He saw her thinking about it carefully, a chance of losing a million
pounds against a minimal loss of face, and he sighed silently with
relief when she shrugged.

Oh, very well then, Dr Twenty-man-jones, have it your own way.

Lothar had carved the road to H'ani Mine through the desert

with his own hands and sprinkled every mile of it with the sweat of his
brow.  But that had been twelve years before, and now his memory of it
had grown hazy.  Still he remembered half a dozen points along the road
which might serve his purpose.

From the stage camp where he had intercepted Gerhard Fourie's convoy
they followed the rutted tracks south and west in the direction of
Windhoek, travelling at night to save them from discovery by unexpected
traffic on the road.

On the second morning, just as the sun was rising, Lothar reached one of
the points he remembered and found it ideal.

Here the road ran parallel to the deep rocky bed of a dry river before
looping down through the deep cutting that Lothar had excavated to cross
the riverbed and climb out the far side through another cutting.

He dismounted and walked out along the edge of the high bank to study it
carefully.  They could trap the diamond truck in the gut of the cutting,
and block it with rocks rolled down from the top of the bank.  There was
certain to be water under the sand in the riverbed for the horses while
they waited for the truck to show up; they would need to keep in
condition for the long hard journey ahead.  The river-bed would hide
them.

Then again this was the remotest stretch of the road, it would take days
for the police officers to be alerted and then to reach the ambush spot.
He could certainly expect to establish an early and convincing lead,
even if they chose the risky alternative of following him into the hard
unrelenting wilderness across which he would retreat.

This is where we will do it,he told Swart Hendrick.

They set up their primitive camp in the sheer bank of the river-bed at
the point where the telegraph line took the short cut across the loop in
the road.  The copper wires were strung over the river-bed from a pole
on the near bank that was out of sight of the road.

Lothar climbed the pole and clipped on his taps to the main telegraph
line, then led his wires down the pole, tacking them to the timber to
avoid casual discovery, and then to his listening post in the dug-out
that Swart Hendrick had burrowed into the bank of the river.

The waiting was monotonous, and Lothar chafed at being tied to the
earphones of the telegraph tap but he could not afford to miss the vital
message when it was flashed from the H'ani Mine, the message which would
give him the exact departure time of the diamond truck.  So during the
dreary hot hours of daylight he had to listen to all the mundane traffic
of the mine's daily business, and the distant operator's skills on the
keyboard were such that they taxed his ability to follow and translate
the rapid fire of dots and dashes that echoed in his earphones.  He
scribbled them into his notebook and afterwards translated the groups
and jotted in the words between the lines.  This was a private telegraph
line and therefore no effort had been made to encode the transmission,
the traffic was in the clear.

During the day he was alone in the dugout.  Swart Hendrick took Manfred
and the horses out into the desert, ostensibly to hunt, but really to
school and harden both the boy and the animals for the journey that lay
ahead and to keep them out of sight of any traffic on the road.

For Lothar the long monotonous days were full of doubts and foreboding.
There was so much that could go wrong, so many details that had to mesh
perfectly to ensure success.

There were weak links, and Gerhard Fourie was the weakest of these.  The
whole plan hinged on the man, and he was a coward, a man easily
distracted and discouraged.

Waiting is always the worst time, Lothar thought, and he remembered the
fears that had assailed him on the eve of other battles and desperate
endeavours.  If you could just do it and have done with it, instead of
having to sit out these dragging days.  Suddenly the buzz of the call
sign echoed in his earphones and he reached quickly for his notebook.
The operator at the H'ani Mine began to transmit and Lothar's pencil
danced across the pages as he kept up with him.  There was a curt double
tap of acknowledgement from the Windhoek station as the message ended,
and Lothar let the earphones drop around his neck as he translated the
groups: For Pettifogger Prepare Juno's private coach for inclusion in
the Sunday night express mail-train to Cape Town Stop Juno arriving your
end noon Sunday Ends Vingt Pettifogger was Abraham Abrahams.  Centaine
must have selected the code name when she was annoyed with him, while
Vingt was a pun on TWentyman-jones name; the French connotation
suggested Centaine's influence again, but Lothar wondered who had
selected Juno as Centaine Courtney's code name and grimaced at how
appropriate it was.

So Centaine was leaving for Cape Town in her private coach. Somehow he
felt guilty relief that she would not be close at hand when it happened,
as though distance might lessen the shock for her.  To reach Windhoek
comfortably by noon on Sunday, Centaine must leave the H'ani Mine early
on Friday, he calculated quickly; that would bring her to the cutting
here on the riverbank on Saturday afternoon.  Then he deducted a few
hours from his estimate; she drove that Daimler like a demon.

He sat in the hot, stuffy little dugout and suddenly he felt an
overwhelming desire to see her again, to have just a glimpse of her as
she passed.  We can use it as a rehearsal for the diamond truck, he
justified himself.

The Daimler came out of the shimmering distances like one of the
whirling dust devils of the hot desert noons.

Lothar saw the dust column from ten miles or more and signalled Manfred
and Swart Hendrick into their positions at the top of the cutting.

They had dug shallow trenches at the key points, scattering the
disturbed earth and letting the dry breeze smooth and blend it with the
surroundings.  Then they had screened the positions with branches of
thorn scrub until Lothar was satisfied that they were undetectable from
further than a few paces.

The rocks with which they would block both ends of the cutting had been
gathered laboriously from the river-bed and poised on the edge of the
bank.  Lothar had taken great care to make them seem natural, and yet a
single slash with a knife across the rope that held the prop under the
rock pile would send them tumbling down onto the narrow track at the
bottom of the cutting.

This was a rehearsal, so none of them were wearing masks.

Lothar made one last hard scrutiny of the arrangements and then turned
back to watch the swiftly approaching column of dust.  It was already
close enough for him to make out the tiny shape of the vehicle beneath
it and hear the faint beat of its engine.

She shouldn't drive like that, he thought angrily.  She'll kill herself.
He broke off and shook his head ruefully.  I'm acting like a doting
husband, he realized.  Let her break her damned neck, if that is what
she wants.  Yet the idea of her death gave him a painful pang, and he
crossed his fingers to turn the chance away.  Then he crouched down in
his trench and watched her through the screen of thorn branches.

The stately vehicle rocked and bounced over the tracks as it swung onto
the loop of the road.  The engine beat strengthened as Centaine changed
down and then accelerated out of the turn, using power to pull out of
the incipient skid as the floury dust clutched at the front wheels.  it
was done with elan, he thought grudgingly, as she hit the gears again
and bore down on the head of the cutting at speed.

Merciful God, is she going to take it at full bore?  he wondered.

But at the last moment she cut the throttle and used the gearbox and the
drag of the clinging dust to pull up at the top end of the cutting.

As she opened the door and stepped out onto the running-board with dust
billowing around her, she was only twenty paces from where he lay, and
he felt his heart banging against the earth.  Can she still do this to
me?  he wondered at himself.  I should hate her.  She has cheated and
humiliated me and she has spurned my son and denied him a mother's love,
and yet, and yet, He would not let the words form, and he tried
deliberately to harden himself against her.

She's not beautiful, he told himself, as he studied her face; but she
was much more.  She was vital and vibrant, and there was an aura about
her.  Juno, he recalled the code name the goddess.  Powerful and
dangerous, mercurial and unpredictable, but endlessly fascinating and
infinitely desirable.  She looked directly towards him for a moment and
he felt the strength and resolve flow out of him at the touch of those
dark eyes, but she had not seen him and she turned away.

We will walk down, cheri, she called to the young man who stepped out of
the opposite side of the Daimler, to see if the crossing is safe.  Shasa
seemed to have grown inches in the short time since Lothar had last seen
him.  They left the vehicle and went side by side down the track below
where Lothar lay.

Manfred was in his trench at the bottom end of the cutting.  He also
watched the pair come down the track.  The woman meant nothing to him.
She was his mother but he did not know that and there was no instinctive
response within him.  She had never given him suck or even held him in
her arms.  She was a stranger, and he glanced at her without any
emotion, then turned all his attention to the youth at her side.

Shasa's good looks offended him.  He's pretty as a girl, he thought,
trying to scorn him, but he saw the new breadth to his rival's shoulders
and fine muscle in his brown arms where he had rolled his sleeves high.

I would like another bout with you, my friend.  The almost forgotten
sting and humiliation of Shasa's left fist hurt again like a fresh
wound, and he touched his own face with his fingertips, scowling at the
memory.  Next time I won't let you do your little dance.  And he thought
about how hard it had been to touch that pretty face, the way it had
swayed and dipped just beyond his reach and he felt the frustration
anew.

The couple reached the foot of the cutting below where Manfred lay and
stood talking quietly for a while, then Shasa trudged out into the wide
river-bed.  The roadway through the sand had been corduroyed with
branches of acacia, but the wheels of heavy trucks had broken them up.
Shasa rearranged them, stamping the jagged ends into the sand.

While he worked Centaine turned back to the Daimler.

There was a canvas water bag hanging on the bracket of the spare wheel
and she unhooked it, raised it to her lips and took a mouthful. She
gargled softly and then spat it into the dust.  Then she slipped off the
long white dust-jacket that protected her clothing and unbuttoned her
blouse.  She soaked the yellow scarf and wiped the damp cloth down her
throat and over her bosom, gasping with pleasure at the coolness on her
skin.

Lothar wanted to turn his head away, but he could not; instead he stared
at her.  She wore nothing under the pale blue cotton blouse. The skin of
her bosom was untouched by the sun, pale smooth and pearly as fine bone
china.  Her breasts were small, without any puckering and sagging, the
tips pointed and still clear rose-coloured as those of a girl, not of a
woman who had borne two sons.  They bounced elastically as she drew the
wet scarf over them and she looked down at them as she bathed the gleam
of perspiration from them.  Lothar moaned softly in his throat at the
need of her that rose freshly and strongly from deep within him.

All set, Mater, Shasa called as he started back up the track, and
quickly Centaine rebuttoned the front of her blouse.

We've wasted enough time, she agreed and slipped back behind the wheel
of the Daimler.  As Shasa slammed his door she gunned the big motor down
the track, kicking up sand and splinters of acacia in a spray from the
back wheels as she crossed the river-bed and flew up the far bank.  The
rumble of the engine dwindled into the desert silence and Lothar found
he was trembling.

None of them moved for many minutes.  It was Swart Hendrick who rose to
his feet first.  He opened his mouth to speak and then saw the
expression on Lothar's face and remained silent.  He scrambled down the
bank and set off back towards the camp.

Lothar climbed down to the spot where the Daimler had stopped.  He stood
looking down at the damp earth where she had spat that mouthful of
water.  Her footprints were narrow and neat in the dust, and he felt a
strong urge to stoop and touch them but suddenly Manfred spoke close
behind him.

He is a boxer, he said, and it took Lothar a moment to realize that he
was talking about Shasa.  He looks a real sissy, but he can fight.  You
can't hit him.  He put up his fists and shadow-boxed, shuffling and
dancing in the dust, imitating Shasa.

Let's get back to the camp, out of sight, Lothar said, and Manfred
dropped his guard and thrust his hands into his pockets. Neither of them
spoke again until they reached the dugout.

Can you box, Pa?  Manfred asked.  Can you teach me to box? Lothar smiled
and shook his head.  I always found it easier to kick a man between his
legs, he said.  And then hit him with a bottle or a gun butt.  I would
like to learn to box, Manfred said.  Someday I will learn.  Perhaps the
idea had been germinating there all along but suddenly it was a firm
declaration.  His father smiled indulgently and clapped him on the
shoulder.

Get out the flour bag, he said.  And I will teach you to bake soda bread
instead.

Oh, Abe, you know how much I detest these soirees!  Centaine exclaimed
irritably.  Crowded rooms filled with tobacco smoke, exchanging
inanities with strangers.  This man could be very valuable to know,
Centaine.  I will go further than that, he could be the most valuable
friend you'll ever make in this territory. Centaine pulled a face.  Abe
was right, of course.  The administrator was in fact the governor of the
territory with wide executive powers. He was appointed by the Government
of the Union of South Africa under the powers of mandate conferred on it
by the Treaty of Versailles.

I expect he is another pompous old bore, just like his predecessor was.
I haven't met him, Abe admitted.  He only arrived in Windhoek to take up
his appointment within the last few days and will not be sworn in until
the first of next month, but our new concessions in the Tsumeb area are
on his desk at this moment, awaiting his signature.  He saw her eyes
shift and he pressed the advantage. 'Two thousand square miles of
exclusive prospecting rights worth a few hours of boredom?  But she
wouldn't give in that easily, and she counterattacked.  We are due to
hook onto the express that leaves this evening.  Shasa must be back at
Bishops on Wednesday morning.  Centaine stood up and paced the saloon of
her coach, stopping to rearrange the roses in the vase above her desk so
she did not have to look at him as he deflected her thrust.

The next express leaves Tuesday evening.  I have made arrangements for
your coach to hook on.  Master Shasa can leave on this evening's
express, I have booked a coupe for him.  Sir Garry and his wife are
still at Weltevreden, they would meet him at Cape Town station.  It
needs only a telegraph to arrange it.  Abraham smiled across the saloon
at Shasa.  I'm sure, young man, you can make the journey without anyone
to hold your hand?  Abe was a cunning little devil, Centaine conceded,
as Shasa rushed indignantly to take up the challenge.

Of course I can, Mater.  You stay here.  it's important to meet the new
administrator.  I can get home on my own.

Anna will help me pack for school.  Centaine threw up her hands. 'if I
die of boredom, Abe, let it be on your conscience for as long as you
live!  She had at first planned to wear her full suite of diamonds, but
decided against it at the last moment.  After all, it's only a little
provincial reception, with fat farmers wives and petty civil servants.
Besides, I don't want to blind the poor old dear.  So she settled for a
yellow silk evening dress by Coco Chanel.  She had worn it before, but
in Cape Town, so it was unlikely anybody here had seen it.

It was expensive enough to bear two wairings, she consoled herself.  Too
good for them, anyway.  She settled on a pair of solitaire diamond ear
studs, not too large to be ostentatious, but around her neck she wore
the huge yellow diamond the colour of champagne on a platinum chain.  It
drew attention to her small pointed breasts; she liked the effect.

Her hair was a worry, as always.  It was full of electricity from the
dry desert air.  She wished Anna was here, for she was the only one who
could manage that lustrous unruly bush.  In despair she tried to make a
virtue of its disorder, deliberately fluffing it out into a halo and
holding it up with a velvet band around her forehead.

That's enough fuss.  She didn't feel like a party at all.

Shasa had left on the mail train as Abe had planned and already she was
missing him keenly.  on top of that she was anxious to get back to
Weltevreden herself and resented having to stay over.

Abe called for her an hour after the time stipulated on the invitation
card that was embossed with the administrator's coat of arms.  During
the drive Rachel, Abe's wife, regaled them with an account of her recent
domestic triumphs and tragedies, including a detailed report of her
youngest offsprings 'bowel movements.

The administrative building, the Ink Palace, had been designed by the
German colonial administration in heavy Gothic imperial style; when
Centaine swept a glance around the ballroom, she saw that the company
was no better than she had expected.  It comprised mainly senior civil
servants, heads and deputy heads of departments with their wives, the
officers of the local garrison and police force, together with all the
town's prominent businessmen and the big landowners who lived close
enough to Windhoek to respond to the invitation.

Amongst them were a number of Centaine's own people, all the managers
and under-managers of the Courtney Finance and Mining Company.

Abe had provided her with an up-to-date bulletin so that as each came
forward diffidently to present their spouses, Centaine was able to make
some gracious personal comment which had them glowing and grinning with
gratification.  Abe stood by to make sure that none of them imposed upon
her, and after the appropriate interval gave her the excuse to escape.

I think we should pay our respects to the new administrator, Mrs
Courtney.  He took her arm and led her towards the reception line.

I have been able to get a few facts about him.  He is a
Lieutenant-Colonel Blaine Malcomess and commanded a battalion of the
Natal Mounted Rifles.  He had a good war and ended with a bar to his
Military Cross.  In private life he is a lawyer, and- The police band
was belting out a Strauss waltz with zeal and gusto and the dance floor
was already crowded.  As they came up to the tail of the reception line,
Centaine saw with satisfaction that they would be the last to be
presented.

Centaine was paying little attention to their host at the head of the
line as she moved along on Abe's arm, leaning across him to listen to
Rachel on his other arm who was giving her a family recipe for chicken
soup but at the same time Centaine was trying to decide just how early
she could make her escape.

Abruptly she realized that they had reached the head of the line, the
very last to do so, and that the administrator's A.D.C.  was announcing
them to their host.

Mr and Mrs Abraham Abrahams and Mrs Centaine de Thiry Courtney. She
looked up at the man who stood before her and involuntarily she dug her
fingernails into the soft inside of Abraham Abrahams elbow with such
force that he winced.  She did not notice it, for she was staring at
Colonel Blaine Malcomess.

He was tall and lean, and he stood well over six feet.  His bearing was
relaxed without any military stiffness and yet he seemed to be balanced
on the balls of his feet as though he could explode into movement at any
moment.

Mrs Courtney, he offered her his hand, I am delighted you were able to
come.  You were the one person I particularly wanted to meet. His voice
was a clear tenor, with a faint lilt to it that might have been Welsh.
An educated and cultivated voice, with modulations which lifted a little
electric rash of pleasure on her forearms and at the nape of her neck.

She took his hand.  The skin was dry and warm, and she could feel the
restrained strength of his fingers as they pressed hers gently. 'He
could crush my hand like an eggshell, she thought, and the idea gave her
a delicious little chill of apprehension.  She studied his face.

His features were large, the bones of his jaw and cheek and forehead
seemed weighty and massive as stone.  His nose was big with a Roman
bridge to it, his brow was beetling and his mouth was big and mobile. He
reminded her strongly of a younger more handsome Abraham Lincoln.  He
isn't yet forty, she estimated, so young for the rank and

the job.

Then she realized with a start that she was still holding his hand, and
that she had not replied to his greeting.  He was leaning over her,
studying her as openly and intently as she was him, and Abe and Rachel
were looking from one to the other of them with interest and amusement.
Centaine had to shake her hand lightly to free it from his grip, and to
her horror she felt the hot rush of blood up her throat into her cheeks.

I'm blushing!  It was something she had not done in years.

I have been fortunate enough to be associated with your family before
this, Blaine Malcomess told her, His teeth also were large and square
and very white.  His mouth was wide, even wider when he smiled. A little
shakily she smiled back.

Have you?  She realized that it wasn't the most sparkling conversational
gambit, but her wits seemed to have deserted her.  She was standing
there like a school-girl, blushing and gawking at him.  His eyes were a
most startling shade of green.  They distracted her.

I served under General Sean Courtney in France, he told her, still
smiling.  Somebody had cut his hair too short at the temples, it made
his large ears stick out.  That irritated her, and yet the sticking-out
ears made him endearing and appealing.

He was a fine gentleman, Blaine Malcomess went on.

Yes, he was, she replied and upbraided herself, Say something witty,
something intelligent, he'll think you a clod.  He was wearing dress
uniform, dark blue and gold with a double row of medal ribbons. Since
girlhood uniforms had always affected her.

I heard that you were at General Courtney's headquarters in Arras for a
few weeks in 1917.  I was still in the line then; I didn't go on his
staff until the end of that year.  She took a deep breath to steady
herself and at last managed to get control again.  What turbulent days
those were, with the universe crashing in ruins about us, she said, her
voice low and husky, her French accent emphasized a little, and she
thought, What is this?  What's happening to you, Centaine?  This is not
the way it is supposed to be.

Remember Michael and Shasa.  Give this man a friendly nod and pass on.
It seems that I have performed my duties for the moment, Blaine
Malcomess glanced at his A.D.C.  for confirmation and then turned back
to Centaine.  May I have the honour of this waltz, Mrs Courtney?  He
offered his arm, and without a moment's hesitation she laid her fingers
lightly in the crook of his elbow.

The other dancers veered away, leaving them an open space as they walked
out side by side onto the floor.  She turned to face Blaine and stepped
into the circle of his arm.

He didn't have to move, merely the way he held her told her that he
would be a marvelous dancer.  Immediately she felt light and dainty and
fleet of foot, and she arched her back and leaned out against the circle
of his arm while his lower body seemed to meld with hers.

He took her on one spinning whirling circuit of the floor, and when she
matched his every move feather light and swift, he began a complicated
series of dips and counter-turns, and she followed him without conscious
effort, seeming to skim the ground, yet totally under his control,
responding to his every whim.

When at last the music ended with a crashing chord and the musicians
fell back in their seats sweating and panting, Centaine felt
unreasonable resentment towards them.  They had not played long enough.

Blaine Malcomess was still holding her in the middle of the floor and
they were laughing delightedly at each other while the other dancers
formed a ring around them and applauded.

Unfortunately that seems to be it for the moment, he said, still making
no effort to release her, and his words roused her.  There was no longer
any excuse for physical contact and she stepped back from him
reluctantly and acknowledged the applause with a small curtsey.

.  I do think we have earned a glass of champagne.  Blaine signalled one
of the white-jacketed waiters and they stood at the edge of the dance
floor and sipped the wine and watched each other's eyes avidly as they
talked.  The exertion had raised a light sheen of sweat on his broad
forehead and she could smell it on his body.

They were alone in the centre of the crowded room.  With a subtle
inclination of her shoulders and head Centaine dissuaded the one or two
bolder souls who approached as if to join them, and after that the
others stayed back.

The band, refreshed and eager, took their seats on the bandstand once
more and this time launched into a foxtrot.

Blaine Malcomess did not have to ask.  Centaine set her almost untouched
champagne on the silver tray that the waiter proffered and lifted her
arms as Blaine faced her.

The more sedate rhythm of the foxtrot enabled them to continue talking,
and there was so much to talk about.  He had known Sean Courtney well,
and held him in affection and admiration.  Centaine had loved him almost
as much as she had loved her own father.  They discussed the dreadful
circumstances in which Sean Courtney and his wife had been murdered, and
their mutual horror and outrage at the deed seemed to draw them still
closer together.

Blaine knew the beloved northern provinces around Arras in her native
France, and his battalion had held a section of the line near Mort
Homme, her home village.  He remembered the burnt-out ruins of her
family's chateau.

We used it as an artillery observation post, he told her.

I spent many hours perched up in the north wing.  His description
induced a pleasant nostalgia, a fine sadness to heighten her emotions.

He loved horses as she did, and was a twelve-goal polo player.

Twelve goals!  she exclaimed.  My son will be most impressed. He has
just been rated a four-goal man.  How old is your son? 'Fourteen.  Very
good for a youngster of that age.  I'd like to see him in action.  That
would be fun, she agreed, and suddenly she wanted to tell him all about
Shasa, but again the music ended and cut her short, and this time he
frowned also.

They are playing very short pieces, aren't they?  Then she felt him
start and he released her waist.  Though she kept her hand on his arm,
the strange elated mood which had gripped them both shattered, and
something dark and intrusive passed like a shadow between them.  She was
not sure what it was.

Ah, he said sombrely.  I see she has returned.  She really wasn't at all
well this evening but she always was a plucky one.  To whom are you
referring?  Centaine asked.  His tone had filled her with foreboding and
she should have been warned by it, but still the shock of it made her
flinch when he said softly: MY wife.  Centaine felt quite giddy for a
moment, and she only kept her balance with an effort when she let her
hand fall from his arm.

I would like you to meet my wife, he said.  May I introduce you to her?
She nodded, unwilling to trust her voice, and when he offered his arm
again she hesitated before she took it, and this time laid her
fingertips only lightly upon it.

He led her across the floor towards the group at the foot of the main
staircase, and as they approached Centaine searched the faces of the
women, trying to guess which one it would be.  Only two of them were
young and none was beautiful, none could compete with her in looks or
strength or poise or talent or wealth.  She felt a surge of confidence
and anticipation replace the momentary confusion and despondency that
had thrown her off balance.  Without thinking about it she knew she was
going into a desperate contest, and she was buoyed up with battle lust
and the enormity of the prize at stake.  She was eager to identify and
assess her adversary and she lifted her chin and set her shoulders as
they stopped before the group.

The ranks of men and women opened respectfully, and there she was,
looking up at Centaine with lovely tragic eyes.  She was younger than
Centaine and possessed of a rare and exquisite beauty.  She wore her
gentle nature and goodness like a shining cloak for all to see, but her
sadness was in the smile she gave Centaine as Blaine Malcomess
introduced them.

Mrs Courtney, may I present my wife Isabella?  You dance exquisitely,
Mrs Courtney.  I have been watching you and Blaine with great pleasure,
she said.  He does so love dancing.  Thank you, Mrs Malcomess, Centaine
whispered huskily, while inside she raged.  Oh, you little bitch.  It's
not fair.

You aren't fighting fair.  How can I ever win now?  Oh God, how I hate
you.  Isabella Malcomess sat in a wheelchair with her nurse behind her.
The ankles of her thin paralysed legs showed under the hem of her
evening dress.  They were pale and skeletal and her feet seemed fragile
and vulnerable in their sequined dancing pumps.

He'll never leave you.  Centaine felt herself choke on her grief.

He's that kind of man, he'll never desert a crippled wife.  Centaine
awoke an hour before dawn and lay for a moment wondering at the strange
sense of well being that possessed her.  Then she remembered and threw
back the sheets, eager for the day to begin.  With both bare feet upon
the floor she paused, and her eyes instinctively went to the framed
photograph of Michael Courtney on the bedside table.

Michael, I'm sorry, she whispered.  I love you.  I still love you, I
always will, but I can't help this other thing.  I didn't want it.  I
didn't look for it.  Please forgive me, my darling.

It's been so long and so lonely.  I want him, Michael.  I want to marry
him and have him for myself.  She took up the frame and for a moment
held it to her bosom.  Then she opened the drawer, laid the photograph
face down upon her folded lace underwear, and closed the drawer again.

She jumped to her feet and reached for the yellow Chinese silk
dressing-gown with the bird of paradise embroidered down the back.
Belting it she hurried through to the saloon of the coach and seated
herself at her desk to compose the telegraph to Sir Garry in their
private code, for the message would be transmitted over the public
fines.

Please urgently forward all intelligence on Lieutenant-Colonel Blaine
Malcomess, newly appointed administrator of South West Africa. Reply in
code.  Love Juno.

She rang for her secretary and chafed while she waited for him. He came
through in a flannel dressing-gown, owl-eyed and unshaven.

Get that off right away.  She handed him the flimsy.  Then get me
Abraham Abrahams on the telephone.  Centaine, it's six o'clock in the
morning, Abe protested, land we didn't get to bed until three o'clock.
,Three hours is enough sleep for any good lawyer.  Abe, I want you to
invite Colonel Malcomess and his wife to dine with me in my coach this
evening.  There was a long weighty silence, and the static hissed on the
line.

You and Rachel are invited, of course.  She filled the silence.

It's much too short notice, he said carefully, obviously choosing his
words with precision.  The administrator is a busy man.  He won't come.
Get the invitation to him personally.  Centaine ignored the protest.
Send your messenger round to his office and see he gets it. Under no
circumstances let his wife receive the invitation first.  He won't come,
Abe repeated stubbornly.  At least I hope to God he won't come.  What do
you mean by that, she snapped.

You are playing with fire, Centaine.  Not just a little candle flame,
but a great raging bush fire.  She pursed her lips.  Mind your own
business, and I'll mind mine, she started, and he broke in on her.

Kiss your own sweetheart, and I'll kiss mine, he finished the childhood
law for her, and she giggled.  He had never heard Centaine Courtney
giggle before; it took him by surprise.

How appropriate, dear Abe.  She giggled again, and his voice was truly
agitated when he told her, You pay me an enormous retainer to mind your
business for you.  Centaine, you set a hundred tongues wagging last
night, the whole town will be agog this morning.  You are a marked
woman, everybody watches you.  You just cannot afford to carry on like
this.  Abe, you and I both know that I can afford to do any damned thing
I choose.  Send that invitation, please!  She rested that afternoon.  It
had been a late night and she was determined to look her best for the
evening.  Her secretary woke her a little after four o'clock in the
afternoon.

Abe had received a reply to the invitation.  The administrator and his
lady would be pleased to dine with her that evening.

She smiled triumphantly, then turned to decode the telegram from Sir
Garry which had also arrived while she was asleep.

For Juno stop.  Subject's full names Blaine Marsden Malcomess born
Johannesburg 28 July 189W So he is nearly thirty-nine years old, she
exclaimed, and he is a Leo.  My big growly lion!  She returned eagerly
to the cable: Second son of James Marsden Malcomess lawyer and mining
entrepreneur, chairman Consolidated Goldfields and director numerous
associated companies, deceased 1922.  Subject was educated St John's
College Johannesburg and Oriel College Oxford.  Academic honours include
Rhodes scholarship and Oriel scholarship.  Sporting honours include full
blue cricket and half blues athletics and polo.  Graduated MA (Hons)
Oxon 1912.  Called to the Bar 1913.  Commissioned 2nd-Lieutenant Natal
Mounted Rifles 1914.  Service in South West Africa Campaign.  Mentioned
in despatches twice.  Promoted Captain 1915.

France with BEF 1915.  Military Cross August 1915.  Promoted Major and
Bar to MC 1916.  Promoted Lieutenant-Colonel O.C.  3rd Battalion 1917.
Staff of General Officer Commanding 6th Division 1918. Versailles
Armistice negotiations on staff of General Smuts.  Partner in law firm
Stirling & Malcomess from 1919.  Member Parliament for Gardens 1924.
Deputy Minister justice 1926-9.  Appointed Administrator South West
Africa I May 1932.  Married Isabella Tara n6e Harrison 1918.  Two
daughters Tara Isabella and Mathilda Janine.

That came as a further shock to Centaine.  She had not thought about
children.

At least she hasn't given him a son.  The thought was so cruel that she
assuaged the prickle of guilt by calculating the age of his daughters. I
expect that they look like their mother.  Horrible little angels that he
dotes on, she decided bitterly, and read the few comments with which Sir
Garry had ended the long cable.

Enquiries addressed to Ou Baas indicate that subject is considered a
rising force in law and politics.  Cabinet rank a strong probability
when SA Party returns to power.  Centaine smiled fondly at the mention
of General Jan Christian Smuts and then read on: Wife thrown from horse
1927.  Extensive spinal damage.

Prognosis unfavorable.  Stop.  Father James Marsden left estate probated
E655,000 in equal shares to two sons.  Stop.

Subject's present financial circumstances not ascertained, but estimated
as substantial.  Stop.  Presently rated 12 goals polo. Captained SA team
versus Argentine 1929.  Stop.

Hope and expect your query businesslike.  If not implore you exercise
restraint and caution as consequences highly prejudicial all parties.
Stop.  Shasa safely ensconced Bishops.  Stop.  Anna joins me in sending
all love.  Ends.  Ovid.

She had selected Sir Garry's code name out of affection and respect for
his craft, but now she threw the telegraph flimsy down on her desk
angrily.

Why does everybody know what's best for me, except me?  she asked aloud.
And why isn't Anna here to help me with my hair?  I look an absolute
fright.  She looked in the mirror over the mantel for confirmation that
it was not true.

Then she dragged her hair back from her face with both hands while she
studied her skin for blemish or wrinkles.

She found only the faintest hairlines at the corners of her eyes yet
they made her discontent extreme.

Why is it that all the most attractive men are already married? And why,
oh why couldn't that silly little nambypamby have stuck in the saddle
instead of falling on her pretty little backside.

Centaine had contrived to make a great deal of fuss over

Isabella?  "Malcomess reception and the transfer of her wheelchair from
the platform to the balcony of the coach.  She had four of the coach
attendants and her secretaries standing by to assist.

Blaine Malcomess waved them away irritably, then he stooped over his
wife.  She slipped both her arms around his neck and he lifted her as
though she were as light as a little girl.  with their faces almost
touching he smiled at her tenderly and then went up the steps onto the
balcony as though he were unburdened.  Isabella's legs dangled
pathetically from under her skirts.  They were wasted and lifeless and
Centaine experienced an unexpected and unwelcome rush of sympathy for
her.

I don't want to pity her, she thought fiercely as she followed them into
the saloon.

Blaine set her down, without asking Centaine's permission in the chair
that subtly dominated the saloon and was naturally the focus of all
attention, the chair that was always and exclusively reserved for
Centaine herself.  Blaine went down on one knee before his wife and
gently arranged her feet, setting them neatly side by side on the silk
carpet.

Then he smoothed her skirt over her knees.  It was obvious that he had
done all this countless times before.

Isabella touched his cheek lightly with her fingertips, and smiled down
on his head with such trust and adoration that Centaine felt entirely
superfluous.  Despair overwhelmed her.  She could not intervene between
these two.  Sir Garry and Abe were both right.  She had to relinquish
him without a struggle, and she felt an almost saintly sense of
righteousness.

Then Isabella looked up at Centaine over the head of her kneeling
husband.  Against the fashion she wore her hair long and straight.  It
was so fine and silky that it formed a thick sheet, lustrous as watered
satin, that flowed down over her bare shoulders.  Her hair was the
colour of roasted chestnuts, but it flickered with glowing red stars and
highlights each time she moved her head.  Her face was round as a
medieval madonna's, and lit with serenity.  Her eyes were brown and
starred with rods of gold that fanned out from the luminous black
pupils.

Isabella looked at Centaine across the full length of the saloon, then
she smiled, a slow complacent possessive smile, and the light in her
brown and gold eyes changed.

She stared into Centaine's dark wild honey eyes and she challenged her.
It was as clear to Centaine as if she had stripped off one of her
elbow-length gloves with its embroidered seed pearls and struck Centaine
in the mouth with it.

You silly little thing, you shouldn't have done that.  All Centaine's
noble resolutions crumbled before that gaze.  I was ready to let you
keep him, I truly was.  But if you want to fight for him, well then, so
do U And she stared back at Isabella and silently took up her challenge.

The dinner was a resounding success.  Centaine had carefully vetted the
menu but had not trusted her chef with either the dressing for the rock
lobster or the sauce for the roast sirloin and had prepared both of
these with her own hands.  They drank champagne with the lobster and a
marvelous velvety Richebourg with the sirloin.

Abe and Blaine were relieved and delighted that Isabella and Centaine
were being so utterly charming and considerate to each other. It was
obvious that they would become close friends.  Centaine included the
crippled girl in almost every remark she made, and was solicitous of
Isabella's comfort, herself arranging cushions at her back or feet.

Centaine's stories were self-mocking and entertaining as she made light
of how she had survived the dreadful crossing of the dune lands, widowed
and pregnant, with only wild Bushmen as companions.

How brave of you.  Isabella Malcomess got the point of the story.

I am sure there are very few women who would have had your
resourcefulness and strength.  Colonel Malcomess, can I prevail on you
to carve the roast.  Sometimes being a woman alone does have its
drawbacks.  There are things that only a man does well, wouldn't you
agree, Mrs Malcomess?  Rachel Abrahams sat quietly and apprehensively.
She was the only one apart from the two principals who understood what
was happening, and her sympathy was all with Isabella Malcomess, for she
could imagine her own little nest and nestlings being threatened by a
circling predator.

You have two daughters, Mrs Malcomess?  Centaine asked sweetlv. 'Tara
and Mathilda Janine, such pretty names.  She let her rival know that she
had done her researches thoroughly.  But you must find it difficult to
cope, girls being always much more of a handful than boys?  Rachel
Abrahams, at the end of the table, winced.  With a single light flick oi
the blade Centaine had pointed up Isabellas disability and her failure
to provide a son and heir for her husband.

Oh, I have plenty of time to devote to my domestic duties, Isabella
assured her, not being in trade, as it Were.

And the girls are such darlings, they are devoted to their father, of
course.

Isabella

was a skilled duellist.  Trade was a word that made Centaine's
aristocratic blood seethe behind her concerned smile, and it was a
master stroke to link the girls so securely to Blaine.  Centaine had
seen his doting expression at mention of them.  She turned to him and
changed the subject to Politics.

Recently General Smuts was a guest at Weltevreden, my Cape home. He is
deeply concerned by the growth of secret militant societies amongst the
lower classes of Afrikaner-dom.  In particular the so-called
Ossewa-Brantlwag and the Afrikaner Broederbond, the best translation of
which would be the "Nightguard of the Wagon Train" and the "Afrikaner

Brotherhoods.  I also feel they are highly dangerous and prejudicial to
the nation's best interests.  Do you share this concern, Colonel
Malcomess?  Indeed, Mrs Courtney, I have made a special study of these
phenomena.  But I do not think that you are correct in saying these
secret societies include the lower classes of Afrikanerdom. quite the
opposite.  The membership is restricted to pure-blooded Afrikaners in
positions of potential or actual influence in politics, government,
religion and education.  However, I agree with your conclusions.  They
are dangerous, more dangerous than most people realize, for their
ultimate aim is to gain control of every facet of our lives, from the
minds of the young to the machinery of justice and government, and to
prefer their members above all consideration of merit or worth.  In many
ways this movement is the counterpart of the rising wave of National
Socialism in Germany under Herr Hitler. Centaine leaned across the table
to enjoy every nuance and inflection of his voice, encouraging him with
question or shrewd sharp comment. With that voice, she thought, he could
sway me and a million voters. Then she realized that the two of them
were behaving as if they were the only ones at the table and she
returned quickly to Isabella.

Would you agree with your husband on that, Mrs Malcomess," and Blaine
laughed indulgently and answered for her.

I'm afraid my wife finds politics a total bore, don't you, my dear And
I'm not sure that she isn't very perceptive in that belief. He drew a
gold watch from the fob pocket of his dinner jacket.

it is after midnight.  I have enjoyed myself so hugely that we have
overstayed our welcome, I'm sure.  You are right, darling. Isabella was
relieved and eager to end it.  Tara has been sickly.  She complained of
a stomach ache before we left.  Tara, the little vixen, always complains
of a stomach ache when she knows we are going out, he chuckled, but they
all rose.

I won't let you go without the solace of a brandy and a cigar, Centaine
demurred.  Although I refuse to accept the barbaric custom of leaving
the men to those pleasures alone while we poor females gather to giggle
and talk babies so we will all go through to the saloon together.
However, as she led them through, her secretary was hovering nervously.

Yes, what is it?  She was annoyed until she saw that he was holding a
telegraph flimsy like a warrant for his own execution.

From Dr TWentyman-Jones, ma'am, and it's urgent.  She accepted the
flimsy but did not unfold it until she had made sure that her guests had
coffee and liqueurs and that both Blaine and Abe were each armed with a
Havana.

Then she excused herself and slipped through to her bedroom.

For Juno.  Strike committee headed by Gerhard Fourie has called out all
white employees.  Stop.  Plant and pit under picket lines and shipment
of goods embargoed.  Stop.

Strikers demanding reinstatement of all retrenched white employees and
guaranteed job security for all.  Stop.

Request your instructions.  Ends.  Vingt.

Centaine sat down on her bed.  The paper in her hand fluttered. She had
never been more angry in her life.  It was treachery, a gross and
unforgivable betrayal.  It was her mine, they were her diamonds. She
paid their wages, and hers was the absolute right to hire and fire.

The shipment of goods that Twenty-man-Jones referred to was the parcel
of diamonds on which her fortune hinged.  Their demands, if pandered to,
would render the H'ani Mine unprofitable.  Who was this Gerhard Fourie,
she wondered, and then remembered he was the chief transport driver.

She went to the door and opened it.  Her secretary was waiting in the
corridor.

Ask Mr Abrahams to come to me.  When Abe stepped through the door she
handed him the telegraph flimsy.

They don't have the right to do this to me, she said fiercely, and
waited impatiently while he read it through.

Unfortunately, Centaine, they do have the right.  Under the Industrial
Conciliation Act of 1924

Don't spout acts at me now, Abe, she cut him off.  They are a bunch of
bolsheviks biting the hand that feeds them!

Centaine, don't do anything hasty.  If we were to Abe, get the Daimler
offloaded from the truck immediately and send Dr Twenty-man-Jones a
telegraph.  Tell him I'm coming and he is to do nothing, make no
concessions nor promises until I arrive.  You'll leave in the morning,
of course?  I will not, she snapped.  I will leave in half an hour from
now, just as soon as my guests have gone and you have the Daimler
detrained.  litis one in the morning, He saw her face and abandoned that
fine of protest.  I'll telegraph the staff at the first staging station
to expect you.  Just tell them to be ready to refuel.  I won't be
staying over.  I'm driving straight through to the mine.  And she went
to the door, paused to compose herself and then, smiling easily, went
back into the saloon.

Is something wrong, Mrs Courtney?  The smile had not deceived Blaine
Malcomess, and he rose to his feet.  Is there anything I can do to help
you?  Oh, just a small nuisance.  Trouble out at the mine.  I have to go
back there right away.  Not tonight, surely?  Yes, tonight 'On your own?
He was troubled, and his concern pleased her.  it's a long hard journey.
I prefer to travel alone.  Then she added with a meaningful intensity,
Or to chose my travelling companion with great care.  She paused, then
went on, Some of my employees have called a strike.  It's unreasonable
and they have no case to justify their action.  I'm certain that I can
smooth it over.

However, sometimes these things get out of hand.  There might be
violence, or vandalism!

Quickly Blaine reassured her.  I can guarantee you full government
cooperation.  A police detachment could be sent to maintain the peace,
if you so wish!

Thank you.  I would appreciate that.  Knowing that I can call upon you
is a great relief and comfort!

I will arrange it first thing tomorrow, he said.  But of course it will
take a few days!  Again they were behaving as though they were alone;
their voices were low and filled with significance beyond what the words
suggested.

Darling, we should leave Mrs Courtney to prepare for her journey.
Isabella spoke from her chair and he started as though he had forgotten
she were there.

Yes, of course.  We will leave at once.  Centaine went with them down
the railway platform to where Blaine's Chevrolet tourer was parked
beneath the single streetlight.  She walked beside Isabella's
wheelchair.

I did so enjoy meeting you, Mrs Malcomess, and I'd love to meet your
girls.  Won't you bring them out to Weltevreden when next you are in
Cape Town?  I don't know when that will be, Isabella refused politely.

My husband will be immersed in his new appointment.  They reached the
waiting vehicle and while the chauffeur held the rear door open, Blaine
lifted Isabella from the chair and seated her on the leather seat.  He
closed the door carefully and turned to Centaine.  His back was to his
wife, and the chauffeur was loading the wheelchair into the boot.  They
were alone for the time being.

She is a courageous and wonderful woman, he said softly as he took
Centaine's hand.  I love her and can never leave her, but I wish -he
broke off and his grip on her fingers was painful.

Yes, Centaine answered as softly.  I also wish, and she revelled in the
pain of his grip.  He ended it too soon for her and went around to the
opposite side of the Chevrolet, while Centaine stooped to the crippled
girl at the open window.

Please do remember my invitation, she began, but Isabella thrust her
face closer and the serene and beautiful mask cracked so that the terror
and the hatred showed through.

He's mine, she said.  And I won't let you have him.  Then she leaned
back in her seat and Blaine slid in beside her and took her hand.

The Chevrolet pulled away, the official pennant on the bonnet
fluttering, and Centaine stood under the streetlight and stared after it
until the headlights faded.

Lothar De La Rey slept with the earphones of the telegraph tap on the
sheepskin roll beside his head, so that the first bleep of the
transmission woke him and he snatched up the headset and called to Swart
Hendrick.  Light the candle, Hennie, they are transmitting.  At this
time of night it must be important.  Yet he was still unprepared for the
import of the message when he scribbled it out in his notebook: 'Strike
Committee headed by Gerhard Fourie has called out all white employees
Lothar was stunned by Twenty-man-jones message.

Gerhard Fourie.  What on earth is that miserable bastard playing at, he
asked himself aloud, and then leapt up and went out of the dugout to
pace agitatedly in the loose sand of the river-bed while he attempted to
work it out.

A strike, why would he call a strike now?  Shipment of goods embargoed.
That has to mean the diamonds.  The strikers are refusing to let the
diamonds leave the mine.  He stopped suddenly and punched his fist into
his own palm.

That's it.  That's what it's all about.  He has called the strike to
worm himself out of our bargain.  His nerve has given in, but he knows I
will kill him for it.  This is his way out.

He isn't going to cooperate.  The whole thing has fallen through., He
stood out in the river-bed and a dark impotent rage overwhelmed him.

All the risks I have taken, all the time and work and hardship. The
theft of the horses, all for nothing, all wasted because of one
yellow-bellied If Fourie had been there he would have shot him down
without compunction.

Baas!  Hendrick yelled urgently.  Come quickly!  The telegraph! Lothar
sprinted back to the dugout and snatched up the headset.  The operator
at the Courtney Mining and Finance Company in Windhoek was transmitting.

For Vingt.  I am returning with all speed.  Stop.  Make no concessions
nor promises.  Stop.  See that all loyal employees are armed and
protected from intimidation.  Stop.  Assure them of my gratitude and
material appreciation.  Stop.  Close the company store immediately, no
food or supplies to be sold to strikers or their families.  Stop.  Cut
off water reticulation and electricity supply to strikers cottages.
Stop.

Inform Strike Committee that police detachment enroute.

Ends.  Juno.  Despite himself and his rage at Fourie, Lothar threw back
his head and laughed with delight and admiration.

Fourie and his strikers don't realize what they are taking on, he
roared.  By God, I'd prefer to tickle an angry black mamba with a short
stick than get in Centaine Courtney's way right now.  He sobered and
thought about it for a while, then he told Hendrick and Manfred quietly,
I have a feeling that those diamonds will be coming through to Windhoek,
strike or no strike.  But I don't think Fourie will be driving the
truck, in fact I don't give Fourie much chance of driving anything
again.  So we won't have a nice polite cooperative escort to hand the
package over to us as we had planned.  But the diamonds will be coming
through, and we are going to be here when they do.  The yellow Daimler
passed their position at eleven o'clock the following night.  Lothar
watched the glow of the headlights gradually harden into solid white
beams of light that swept across the plain towards him and then dipped
and disappeared into the river-bed only to blaze up into the moonless
sky as the Daimler pointed its nose up the cutting and climbed out of
the river-bed again.  The engine bellowed in low gear on the steep
incline and then settled to a high whine as it shot over the top and
sped away into the northeast towards the H'ani Mine.

Lothar struck a match and checked his watch.  Say she left Windhoek an
hour after her telegraph last night, that means she has reached here in
twenty-two hours straight driving, over these roads in the dark.  He
whistled softly.  If she keeps going like that, she'll be at the H'ani
Mine before noon tomorrow.  It doesn't seem possible. The blue hills
rose out of the heat mirage ahead of Centaine, but this time their magic
was unable to captivate her.  She had been at the wheel for thirty-two
hours with only brief intervals of rest while she refuelled at the
staging posts, and once when she had pulled to the side of the road and
slept for two hours.

She was tired.  The weariness ached in the marrow of her bones, burned
her eyes like acid and lay upon her shoulders and crushed her down in
the leather seat of the Daimler as though she wore a suit of heavy chain
mail.  Yet her anger fuelled her, and when she saw the galvanized iron
roofs of the mine buildings shining in the sun her weariness dropped
away.

She stopped the Daimler and stepped down in the road to stretch and
swing her arms, forcing fresh blood into her stiff stret limbs.  Then
she twisted the rearview mirror and examined her face in it.  Her eyes
were bloodshot and red-rimmed with little wet balls of mud and mucus in
the corners.  Her face was deathly white, powdered with pale dust and
drained of blood by her fatigue.

She wet a cloth with cool water from the canvas water bag and cleaned
the dust from her skin.  Then from her toilet bag she took the bottle of
eyewash and little blue eye-bath.  She bathed her eyes.  They were clear
and bright again when she checked in the mirror, and she patted her pale
cheeks until the blood rouged them.  She readjusted the scarf around her
head, stripped off the full-length white dust-jacket that protected her
clothes and she looked clean and rested and ready for trouble.

There were little groups of women and children gathered at the corners
of the avenues.  They watched her sullenly and a little apprehensively
as she drove past them on the way to the administration building.  She
sat straightbacked behind the wheel and looked directly ahead.

As she neared the office, she saw the pickets who had been lolling under
the thorn tree outside the gates hastily reorganizing themselves.

There were twenty at least, most of the able-bodied white artisans on
the mine.  They formed a line across the road and linked arms facing
her.  Their faces were ugly and threatening.

Nothing goes in!  Nothing goes out, they began to chant as she slowed.
She saw that most of them had armed themselves with clubs and pick
handles.

Centaine thrust the palm of her hand down on the button and the
Daimler's horn squealed like a wounded bull elephant and she drove hard
at the centre of the picket line with the accelerator pedal pressed to
the floorboards.  The men in the centre saw her face behind the
windshield and realized that she would run them down.  At the last
minute they scattered.

one of them yelled, We want our jobs!  and swung his pick handle against
the rear window.  The glass starred and collapsed over the leather seat,
but Centaine was through.

She pulled up in front of the verandah just as Twenty-man-Jones hurried
out of his office struggling with his jacket and necktie.

We weren't expecting you until tomorrow at the very earliest. 'Your
friends were.  She pointed at the shattered window, and his voice went
shrill with indignation.

They attacked you?  That's unforgivable.  I agree, she said. 'And I'm
not going to be the one who does the forgiving. Twenty-man-jones wore a
huge service pistol bolstered on his skinny hip.

Behind him was little Mr Brantingham, the mine bookkeeper, his head bald
as an ostrich egg and much too large for his narrow rounded shoulders.
Behind his gold-rimmed pince-nez; he was close to tears, but he carried
a double-barrelled shotgun in his pudgy white hands.

You are a brave man, Centaine told him.  I won't forget your loyalty.
She led Twenty-man-Jones into her office and sat down thankfully at her
desk.  How many other men are with us?  Only the office staff, eight of
them.  The artisans and mine staff are all out, though I suspect there
has been pressure on some of them.  Even Rodgers and Maclear?  They were
her senior overseers.  Are they out also?  I'm afraid so.  Both of them
are on the strike committee. 'With Fourie?

The three of them are the ringleaders.  I'll see that they never work
again, she said bitterly, and he dropped his eyes and mumbled: I think
we have to bear in mind that they haven't broken the law.  They have the
legal right to withhold their labour, and to bargain collectively Not
when I am struggling to keep the mine running.  Not when I am trying to
ensure that there will be jobs for at least some of them.  Not after all
I've done for them., I'm afraid they do have that right,he insisted.

Whose side are you on, Dr TWentyman-jones?  He looked stricken. 'You
should never have to ask that question, he said.  From the first day we
met I've been your man.  You know that.  I was merely pointing out your
legal position.  Immediately contrite, Centaine stood up and reached for
his arm to console him.

Forgive me.  I'm tired and jumpy.  She had stood up too quickly and the
blood drained from her head.  She turned deathly pale and swayed giddily
on her feet.  He seized her and steadied her.

When did you last sleep?  You have driven from Windhoek without rest. He
led her to the leather sofa and forced her gently down upon it.

You are going to sleep now, for at least eight hours.  I'll have fresh
clothes brought down from your bungalow., I must speak to the
ringleaders.  No.  He shook his head as he drew the curtains.  Not until
you are refreshed and strong again.  Otherwise you could make mistakes
of judgement.  She sagged back and pressed her fingers into her closed
eyelids.  You are right, as always., I'll wake you at six this evening,
and I'll inform the strike committee that you will interview them at
eight.  That will give us two hours to plan our strategy.  The three
members of the strike committee filed into Centaine's office, and she
stared at them for fully three minutes without speaking.  She had
deliberately had all the chairs removed except those in which she and
Twenty-man-Jones sat.  The strikers were forced to stand before her like
schoolboys.

There are over a hundred thousand men out of work in this country at the
present time, she said in a dispassionate voice.  Any one of whom would
go down on his knees for your jobs.  That won't bloody work, said
Maclear.  He was a nondescript-looking man, of medium height and
uncertain age, but Centaine knew he was quick-witted, tenacious and
resourceful.  She wished he was with her rather than against.

If you are going to use foul language in front of me, Mr Maclear, she
said, you can leave immediately.  That won't work either, Mrs Courtney.
He smiled sadly in acknowledgement of her spirit.  You know our rights,
and we know our rights.  Centaine looked at Rodgers.  How is your wife,
Mr Rodgers?  A year previously she had paid for the woman to travel to
Johannesburg for urgent treatment by one of the leading abdominal
surgeons in the Union.  Rodgers had gone with her on full pay, and all
expenses paid.

She's well, Mrs Courtney, he said sheepishly.

What does she think of this nonsense of yours?  He looked down at his
feet.  She's a sensible lady, Centaine went on.

I would think she is worrying about her three little ones.  We are all
together, Fourie cut in.  We are all solid, and the women are behind us.
You can forget all that, Mr Fourie, please do not interrupt me when I am
speaking.  Playing the high and mighty lady muck-a-muck around here is
going to get you nowhere, he blustered. 'We've got you and your bloody
mine and your bloody diamonds over a barrel.  You are the one who has
got to do the listening when we speak, and that's the plain fact of the
matter.  He grinned cockily and looked to his mates for approbation. The
grin concealed his trepidation.  On one side he had Lothar De La Rey and
his threat.  If he could not come up with a good enough excuse for not
performing his obligations he knew he was a dead man.  He had to
aggravate the strike until someone else transported the diamonds and
gave him an escape.  You aren't going to get one single bloody diamond
off this property until we say so, lady. We're keeping them here as
hostages.  We know you've got a really whopping packet sitting there in
the strongroom, and that's where it will stay, until you listen to what
we have to say.  He was a good enough judge of character to guess what
Centaine Courtney's reaction to that threat would be.

Centaine studied his face intently.  There was something that did not
ring true, something devious and convoluted in his manner.  He was being
too deliberately aggressive and provocative.

All right, she agreed quietly.  I'll listen.  Tell me what you want. She
sat quietly while Fourie read the list of demands.

Her face was impassive, the only signs of her anger that TWentyman-Jones
knew so well were the soft flush of blood that stained her throat and
the steady rhythmic tap of her foot on the wooden floor.

Fourie reached the end of the reading and there was another long
silence.  Then he proffered the document.

This is your copy.  Put it on my desk, she ordered, disdaining to touch
it.

The people that were retrenched from this mine last month were given
three months pay in lieu of notice, she said, Three times more than they
were entitled to, you know that.  They were all given good letters of
reference, you know that also.  They are our mates, Fourie said
stubbornly.  Some of them our family.  All right.  She nodded. 'You have
made your position clear.  You may leave now.  She rose and they looked
at one another in consternation.

Aren't you going to give us an answer?  Maclear asked.

Eventually, she nodded.

When will that be?  When I am ready and not before.  They filed towards
the door, but before he reached it, Maclear turned back and faced her
defiantly.

They've closed the company store and cut off the water and electricity
to our cottages, he challenged her.

On my orders, she agreed.

You can't do that.  I don't see why not.  I own the store, the
generator, the pumphouse and the cottages.  We've got wives and children
to feed.  You should have thought about them before you started your
strike!

We can take what we want, you know.  Even your diamonds.  You can't stop
us.  Make me a very happy woman, she invited.  Do it. Break into the
store and steal the goods from the shelves.  Dynamite the strongroom and
take my diamonds.  Assault my loyal people.  Nothing would please me
more than to see the three of you in gaol for life, or dancing on the
gallows tree!

As soon as they were alone again, she turned to Twenty-man-Jones.

He is right.  The first and only consideration is the diamonds. I have
to get them safely into the bank vaults in Windhoek.  We can send them
in under police escort, he agreed, but she shook her head.

It might take five more days for the police to reach here.

There is all sorts of red tape before they can move.  No, I want those
diamonds away from here before dawn.  You know the insurance doesn't
cover riot and civil disturbance.

If something happens to them I will be ruined, Dr Twenty-man-Jones.

They are my lifeblood.  I cannot risk them falling into the hands of
these ignorant arrogant brutes.  Tell me what you intend.  I want you to
take the Daimler round to its garage in the rear.  Have it refuelled and
checked.  We will load the diamonds through the back door.  She pointed
across her office to the concealed door she used sometimes when she
wished to avoid being seen entering or leaving.  At midnight when the
pickets are asleep you will cut the barbed-wire fence directly opposite
the garage door.  Good.  He was following her intentions. 'That will let
us out into the sanitary lane.  The pickets are at the main gates on the
opposite side of the compound.  They haven't posted anyone on the rear
side.  Once we are clear of the lane it's a straight run out onto the
main road to Windhoek, we'll be clear in a matter of seconds.  Not we,
Dr Twenty-man-Jones, she said, and he stared at her.

You don't intend going alone?  he asked.

I have just made the journey alone, swiftly and with not the least sign
of trouble.  I anticipate no problem with the return.  I need you here.
You know I cannot leave the mine to Brantingham or one of the clerks.
You have to be here to deal with these strikers. Without you they may
wreck the plant or sabotage the workings.  It would only take a stick or
two of dynamite.  He wiped his face with his open hand, from forehead to
chin, in an agony of indecision, torn between two duties: the mine which
he had built up from nothing and which was his pride, and the woman who
he loved as dearly as a daughter or a wife he had never had.  At last he
sighed.  She was right, it had to be that way.

Then take one of the men with you, he pleaded.

Brantingham, bless him?  she asked, raising her eyebrows, and he threw
up both hands as he saw how ridiculous that idea was.

I'll take the Daimler around to the back, he said.  Then I'll get a
telegraph through to Abe in Windhoek.  He can send out an escort
immediately to meet you on the road, that is if the strikers haven't cut
the wires yet.  Don't send that until I am clear, Centaine instructed.

The strikers may just have had enough sense to have put a tap on the
line, in fact that is probably why they have not cut it yet.
Twenty-man-Jones nodded.  Very well.  What time do you intend breaking
out?  Three o'clock tomorrow morning, she said, without hesitation. it
was the hour when human vitality was at its lowest ebb.  That was when
the strike picket would be least prepared for swift reaction.

Very well, Mrs Courtney.  I will have my cook prepare you a light
dinner, and then I suggest you get some rest.  I will have everything
ready and wake you at two-thirty.  She woke the instant he touched her
shoulder and sat up.

Half past two o'clock, Twenty-man-Jones said.  The Daimler is refuelled
and the diamonds loaded.  The barbed wire is cut.  I have drawn you a
bath and there is a selection of fresh clothes from the bungalow.  I
will be ready in fifteen minutes, she said.

They stood beside the Daimler in the darkened garage and spoke in
whispers.  The double doors were open, and there was a crescent moon
lighting the yard.

I have marked the gap in the wire.  Twenty-man-Jones pointed and she saw
the small white flags drooping from the barbed wire strands fifty yards
away.

The canisters of industrial diamonds are in the boot, but I have put the
package of top stones on the passenger seat beside you.  He leaned
through the open window and patted the black despatch box.  It was the
size and shape of a small suitcase, but of japanned steel with a brass
lock.

Good.  Centaine buttoned her dust-jacket and pulled on her soft dog-skin
driving gauntlets.

The shotgun is loaded with Number Ten bird-shot, so you can fire at
anybody who tries to stop you without risk of committing murder. It'll
just give them a good sting.  But if you mean business, there is a box
of buckshot in the glove compartment.  Centaine slid in behind the wheel
and pulled the door closed gently so as not to alert a listener out in
the silent night.  She placed the double-barrelled shotgun on top of the
diamond chest and cocked both hammers.

There is a basket in the boot, sandwiches and a Thermos of coffee.  She
looked at him out of the side window and said seriously, 'You are my
tower.  Don't let anything happen to you, he said.  A pox on the
diamonds, we can dig more of them.  You are unique, there's only one of
you.  Impulsively he unbuckled the service revolver from around his
waist and leaned into the Daimler to Push it into the pocket at the back
of the driver's seat.

It's the only insurance I can offer you.  Remember there is a cartridge
under the hammer, he said.  Pray you never need it.  He stepped back and
gave her a laconic salute.  God speed!  She started the Daimler and the
great seven-litre engine rumbled softly.  She flipped of the hand-brake,
switched on the headlights and gunned the Daimler out through the open
doors and across the yard, going up through the gears in a deft series
of racing changes.

She aimed the mascot on the bonnet between the white markers, roared
through the gap in the fence at forty miles an hour, and felt a loose
strand of barbed wire scrape down the side of the coachwork. Then she
tramped down on the brake and spun the wheel, steering the front wheels
onto the dusty lane, meeting the skid and then going flat on the
accelerator pedal again.  She shot down the lane with the Daimler
roaring at full power.

Above the engine she heard faint shouts and saw the dark indistinct
figures of a mob of strikers racing down the fence from the main gate to
try and intercept her at the corner of the lane.  She picked up the
shotgun and thrust the double muzzles through the window beside her.  In
the headlights the faces of the running men were ugly with rage, their
mouths dark pits as they shouted at her.

Two of them were swifter than their mates, and they reached the corner
of the lane just as the Daimler came level.

one of the strikers flung his pick handle and it cartwheeled through the
beam of the headlights and clanged off the bonnet.

Centaine depressed the shotgun, aiming for their legs, and fired both
barrels, with long spurts of orange flame and blurts of sound. Bird-shot
lashed their legs and the strikers howled with shock and pain and leapt
off the road as Centaine roared past them and turned onto the main road
down the slope and out into the desert.

For Pettifogger.  Urgent and Imperative.  Juno un-accompanied departed
this end 3 am instant carrying goods.  Stop.

immediately despatch armed escort to intercept her enroute. Ends. Vingt.

Lothar De La Rey stared at the message he had copied onto his pad by the
guttering flame of the candle.

Unaccompanied, he whispered.  Juno unaccompanied.

Carrying goods.  By Christ Almighty, she's coming through alone, with
the diamonds.  He calculated swiftly.  She left the mine at three am.
She'll be here an hour or so after noon.  He left the dugout and climbed
the bank.  He found a place to sit and lit one of his precious cheroots.
He looked at the sky, watching the crescent moon sink into the desert.
When the dawn turned the eastern horizon into a peacock's tail of
colour, he went down to the camp and blew flame from last night's ashes.

Swart Hendrick came out of the dugout and went to urinate noisily in the
sand.  He came back to the fire buttoning his breeches, yawning widely
and sniffing the coffee in the billy.

We are changing the plan, Lothar told him, and Hendrick blinked and
became warily attentive.

Why?, The woman is bringing the diamonds through alone.  She won't give
in easily.  I don't want her hurt in any way.  I wouldn't,

The hell you wouldn't.  When you get excited, you shoot, Lothar cut him
off brusquely.  But that's not the only reason.  He ticked off the
others on his fingers.  First: one woman alone requires only one man. I
have time enough to re-rig the ropes to bring down the boulders into the
cutting from my position.  Two: the woman knows you, it doubles the risk
of having us recognized.  Three, he paused, the true reason was that he
wanted to be alone with Centaine again.

it would be the last time.  He would never be coming back this way
again.  We will do it this way because I say we will.  You will stay
here with Manfred and the horses, ready to ride as soon as I have done
the job., Hendrick shrugged.  I will help you rig the ropes, he grunted.

Centaine stopped the Daimler at the head of the cutting and left the
engine running as she jumped out onto the runningboard and surveyed the
crossing.

Her own outward tracks were still clear and sharp and untouched in the
soft lemon-coloured dust.  There had been no other traffic through the
drift since she had passed the night before last.  She unhooked the
water bag and drank three mouthfuls, and then corked it again and hung
it on the spare wheel bracket, climbed back into the cab, slammed the
door and let off the hand-brake.

She let the Daimler trundle down the incline, swiftly gathering speed,
when suddenly there was a rush of earth and rock, a swirling cloud of
dust obscured the cutting directly ahead of her and she hit the brake
hard.

The bank had collapsed on one side, and had almost filled the cutting
with rock and loose earth.

Merde!  she swore.  It would mean a delay while she cleared the rubble
or found another place to cross.  She snapped the Daimler into reverse
and twisted in her seat looking back through the missing rear window
that the striker had knocked out, preparing to back up the incline, and
she felt the first flutter of alarm against her ribs.

The bank had collapsed behind the Daimler also, sliding down in a soft
churned ramp.  She was trapped in the cutting, and she leaned out of the
open window and looked about her anxiously, coughing in the dust that
still billowed around her vehicle.

As it cleared she saw that the road ahead was only partially blocked. On
the opposite side to the landslide there was still a narrow gap, not
sufficient for the wide track of the Daimler to get through, but there
was a spade strapped to the roof-rack.  A few hours work in the burning
sun should clear the way enough for her to work the Daimler through, but
the setback galled her.  She reached for the door handle, then a
premonition of danger stopped her hand and she looked up the bank beside
her.

There was a man standing at the top of the rise, looking down at her.
His boots at the level of her eyes were scuffed and white with dust.
There were dark sweat patches on his blue shirt.  He was a tall man, but
he had the lean hard look of a soldier or a hunter.  However, it was the
rifle that he carried across his hip, pointing down into her face and
the mask he wore that terrified her.

The mask was a white flour bag.  She could read the red and blue
lettering on it: Premier Milling Co.  Ltd', an innocuous kitchen article
endowed with infinite menace by the two eye-holes that had been cut into
the cloth.  The mask and the rifle told her exactly what to expect.

A whole series of thoughts flashed through her mind as she sat frozen at
the wheel staring up at him.

The diamonds are not insured.  That was the thought at the forefront of
her mind.  The next staging post is forty miles ahead, was the next
thought, and then: I forgot to reload the shotgun, spent shells in both
barrels.

The man above her spoke, his voice muffled by the mask and obviously
disguised.

Switch off the engine!  He gestured with the rifle to enforce the order.
Get out!  She got out and looked around her desperately, her terror gone
now, burned away by the need to think and act.  Her eyes fastened
directly ahead on the narrow gap left between the soft ramp of raw earth
where the landslide had poured down in front of her and the steep firm
bank on the other side.

I can get through, she thought, or at least I can try.  And she ducked
back into the cab.

Stop!  The man above her yelled, but she slammed the Daimler into low
gear.

The rear wheels spun in the fine yellow dust, throwing it back in twin
fountains.  The Daimler lurched forward, the tail swaying and skidding,
but it gathered speed sharply and Centaine aimed the bonnet at the
narrow gap between the bank and the slide of earth and rock.

She heard the man above her shout again, and then a warning rifle shot
cracked over the top of the cab but she ignored it and concentrated on
taking the Daimler out of the trap.

She rode her offside wheels high up the incline of the bank, and the
Daimler reared over on its side almost to the point of capsizing, but
its speed was still building up.

Centaine was heavily shaken and tossed about so that she had only her
grip on the steering wheel to keep her in her seat as the big car canted
even further over.

Still the gap was too narrow; her nearside wheels smashed into the piled
earth and rock.  The Daimler bucked wildly, throwing its nose high,
flying up and forward like a hunter at a fence.  Centaine was hurled
towards the windshield, but she flung up a hand to brace herself and
clung to the wheel with the other.

The Daimler came down again with a rending crash, jerking Centaine back
against the padded leather seat.  She felt unyielding rock slam up into
the Daimler's belly like a boxer taking a heavy body blow, and the back
wheels crabbed over the pile of broken earth, the rubber tyres
screeching as they sought purchase on the tumbled boulders.  Then they
caught and flung the Daimler forward again.

it dropped down the far side of the obstacle, and hit hard.

Centaine heard something break, the clanging rupture of one of the
steering rods and the wheel spun without resistance in her hands.  The
Daimler had fought its way over the barrier, but it was mortally wounded
and out of control.  The steering gone and the throttle linkage jammed
wide open.

Centaine screamed and clung to the walnut dashboard as it roared down
the cutting towards the river-bed, slamming into one bank and then
hurling across and crashing into the other, the coachwork banging and
ripping and buckling at each impact.

She tried desperately to reach the ignition switch, but the speedometer
needle was flicking at the 30 mph notch and she was thrown across the
passenger seat.  The steel corner of the diamond case gouged her ribs,
then she was thrown back the other way.

The door beside her burst open just as the Daimler roared out of the
cutting into the river-bed and Centaine was hurled out through it.
Instinctively she doubled herself into a ball, as though she were taking
a fall from a galloping horse, and she rolled in the soft white sand,
head over heels, coming up at last on her knees.

The Daimler was slewing wildly across the river-bed, the engine still
roaring, and one of the front wheels, damaged by the rocks of the
barrier, flew off, bounding and leaping like a wild creature until it
struck the far bank.

The front end of the Daimler dropped and the nose dug into the sand. The
engine was still roaring and the huge vehicle somersaulted end over end
and came down on its back.  The three remaining wheels pointed at the
sky, spinning in a blur, the glass in the windows crackling and
splintering into diamond chips, the cab buckling and sagging, hot oil
pouring out of the slats in the bonnet and soaking into the sand.

Centaine pushed herself up and was running as she regained her feet. The
sand clung to her ankles.  It was like running in a bath of treacle, and
terror had heightened her senses so that time seemed to stand still.  It
was like one of those terrible dreams in which all her movements were
reduced to slow motion.

She dared not look behind her.  That menacing masked figure must surely
be close.  She tensed for the grip of the hand that would seize her at
any instant or the slam of a bullet into her back, but she reached the
Daimler and dropped on her knees in the sand beside it.

The driver's door had been torn off and she crawled halfway into the
aperture.  The shotgun was wedged against the steering control but she
dragged it clear and ripped open the small door of the glove
compartment.  The cardboard box of shotgun shells was scarlet with black
lettering: ELEY KYNOCH 12GAUGE 25X SSG it broke open under her frantic
fingers and the red brasst tipped shells spilled into the sand around
her knees.

She pushed across the breech lock of the shotgun with her thumb and
broke open the gun.  The two empty bird-shot cartridges flew out with a
crisp click-click of the ejectors and the gun was snatched out of her
hands.

The masked man stood over her.  He must have moved like a hunting
leopard to come down the bank and across the river-bed so quickly.  He
flung the empty shotgun out across the sand.  It landed fifty feet away,
but the impetus of the throw had swung him off balance.  Centaine
launched herself at him, coming off her knees and driving her whole
weight into his chest, just below the raised left arm that he had used
to throw the shotgun.

It was unexpected, and he was balanced on one foot.  They went over
together in the sand.  For an instant Centaine was on top of him, and
then she wriggled away, came to her feet and floundered back towards the
Daimler.  The engine was still racing, blue smoke pouring from the
engine as the oil drained away from the sump and it overheated.

The pistol!  Centaine seized the handle of the rear door and threw her
weight against it.  Through the window she could see the leather holster
and the chequered butt of Twentyrnan-Jones service revolver protruding
from the seat pocket, but the door was jammed.

She ducked back to the gaping front door and tried to reach it over the
back of the driver's seat, but bone-hard fingers dug into her shoulders
and she was dragged bodily out of the doorway.  instantly she spun in
his grip, and his face was very close to hers.  The thin white cotton
bag covered his entire head, like the head of a Ku-Klux Klansman.

The eye-holes were dark as the hollow sockets in a skull, but there was
a glint of human eyes deep in the shadow and she went for them with her
fingernails.

He jerked his head away but her forefinger hooked in the thin cloth and
ripped it down to his chin.  He seized her wrists and instead of pulling
away she hurled herself against him and drove her right knee up into his
groin.  He twisted violently and caught her knee on the side of his
upper thigh.

She felt the shock of the blow drive into the rubbery muscle of his leg,
but his grip on her wrists tightened as though she had been caught in
the jaws of a steel gin trap.

She ducked her head and fastened her teeth into his wrist like a ferret,
at the same time kicking and kneeing him in the lower body and shins,
raining blows at him, most of them slogging into his hard flesh or
bouncing off bone.

He was grunting and trying to control her.  Obviously he hadn't expected
this type of wild resistance, and the pain in his wrist must have been
excruciating.  Already the hinges of her jaws were cramping with the
force of her bite.  She could feel tissue and flesh splitting and
tearing between her teeth and his blood welled into her mouth, hot and
coppery and salt-tasting.

With his free hand the masked man seized a handful of her thick curly
hair and tried to pull her head back.  She was breathing through her
nose, snuffling like a bulldog and gritting her teeth in with all her
strength, and she reached the bone.  It grated under her teeth, and the
man was tugging and jerking at her head, giving small agonized cries and
grunts.

She closed her eyes, expecting him at any moment to slam his fist into
the side of her head and break the grip of her teeth, but he was
strangely gentle and considerate in his reaction, not attempting to
inflict injury or pain, merely trying to pull her off.

She felt something burst in her mouth.  She had bitten through an artery
in his wrist.  Blood pumped against the roof of her palate with hot
spurts that threatened to choke and drown her.  She let it pour from the
corners of her mouth without relaxing her bite.  It sprayed from her
lips and splattered them both as he jerked her head from side to side.
He was moaning with agony now, and at last he used punitive force.

He dug thumb and forefinger into the hinges of her jaw.

His fingers were like iron spikes.  Pain shot down into her locked jaws
and up behind her eyes, and she opened her mouth and flung herself
backwards, again taking him by surprise, breaking out of his grip and
darting away back towards the Daimler.

This time she thrust her arm over the back of the driver's seat and
reached up to the butt of the revolver.  It slipped from the greased
holster, and while she fumbled with a shaking hand to get a hold on it,
the mas man seized her hair from behind and jerked her backwards.  The
heavy pistol fell through her fingers and clattered against the steel of
the inverted cab.

She rounded on him again, snapping at his face with teeth that were
still stained pink with his blood.  The torn mask flapped over his face,
blinding him for an instant and he stumbled and fell holding her in his
arms.  She was kicking and scratching and slashing at him as he rolled
on top of her and pinned her with his full weight, holding her arms
spread like a crucifix, and suddenly she stopped struggling and stared
up at him.

The flap of his mask hung open and she could see his eyes.  Those
strange pale topaz-coloured eyes with the long dark lashes, and she
gasped.

Lothar!  He stiffened with the shock of his name, and they lay, locked
like lovers, legs entangled, their lower bodies pressed together, both
panting wildly and smeared with his blood, staring at each other
wordlessly.

Abruptly he released her and stood up.  He pulled the mask off his head
and his tousled golden locks fell about his ears and tumbled down his
forehead into his eyes as he wrapped the mask tightly around his
mutilated wrist.  He realized that it was seriously injured, the tendons
and bone were exposed and the flesh was mangled and tattered where she
had chewed it.  Bright scarlet arterial blood soaked through the white
cloth immediately and dripped into the sand.

Centaine pulled herself into a sitting position and watched him. The
engine of the Daimler had stalled, and there was silence except for
their breathing.

Why are you doing this?  she whispered.

You know why.  He knotted the cloth with his teeth, and suddenly she
flung herself sideways and reached desperately into the cab, her fingers
scrabbling again for the pistol.  She touched it, but could not get her
fingers around the butt before he pulled her away and pushed her over
backwards in the sand.

He picked up the pistol and unclipped the lanyard.  He wound the lanyard
around his forearm as a tourniquet and grunted with satisfaction as the
seep of blood shrivelled.

-Where are they?  He looked down at her where she lay.

What are you talking about?  He stooped and looked into the cab of the
Daimler, then pulled out the black japanned despatch box.

Keys?  he asked.

She stared back at him defiantly and he squatted and placed the box
firmly in the sand, then stepped back a pace.

He cocked the pistol and fired a single shot.  The report was stunning
in the desert silence, and Centaine's ear drums buzzed with the memory.
The bullet had torn the lock of the despatch box away and a circle of
the black paint flaked from the lid leaving the metal beneath shiny and
bright.

Lothar pocketed the pistol, and knelt and lifted the lid.

The case was filled with small packages, each neatly wrapped in brown
paper and sealed with red wax.  He picked out one package, favouring his
injured hand, and read aloud the inscription in Twentyrnan-Jones ornate
old-fashioned penmanship:

156 PIECES TOTAL 382 CARATS

He tore open the heavy cartridge paper with his teeth and shook out a
sprinkle of gems into the palm of his injured hand.  In the white
sunlight they had that peculiar soapy sheen of uncut diamonds.

Very pretty, he murmured and dropped the loose stones into his pocket.
He packed the torn parcel back into the despatch case and closed the
lid.

I knew you were a murderer, she said.  I never thought you a common
thief.  You stole my boats and my company.  Don't talk to me about
thieves.  He tucked the despatch case under his arm and stood up.

He went round to the boot of the Daimler and managed to open it a crack,
even though the vehicle was inverted, and he checked the contents.

Good, he said.  You've had the sense to bring spare water.

Twenty gallons will last you a week, but they'll find you before then.
Abrahams is sending out an escort to meet you.  I intercepted the
instruction from Twenty-man-jones.  You swine, she whispered.

I will cut the telegraph wires before I leave.  As soon as that happens
they will realize at both ends that something is wrong.  You'll be all
right.  Oh God, I hate you.  Stay with the vehicle.  That's the first
law of desert survival.  Don't go wandering off.  They will rescue you
in about two days, and I will have two days Start.  I thought I hated
you before, but now I know the real meaning of the word.  I could have
taught it to you, he said quietly, as he picked the abandoned shotgun
out of the sand.  I came to know it well, over the years that I was
rearing your son.  Then again when you came back into my life only to
tear down everything I ever dreamed about and worked for.  He swung the
shotgun like an axe against one of the boulders. The butt shattered but
he went on until it was bent and battered and useless.  He dropped it.

Then he slung the Mauser over his shoulder and transferred the despatch
case to his other hand.  He held the injured hand in its blood-wet
wrapping against his chest.

Clearly the pain was fierce; he had paled under his deep bronze tan and
there was a catch in his voice as he went on.

I tried not to hurt you, if you hadn't struggled-!  he broke off.  We
will not meet again, ever.  Goodbye, Centaine.  We will meet again, she
contradicted him.  You know me well enough, you must realize that I will
not rest until I have full retribution for this day's work.  He nodded.
I know you will try.  He turned away.

Lothar!  she called sharply, and then softened her voice when he turned
back.  I'll make you a bargain, your company and your boats free of all
debt for my diamonds.  A bad bargain.  He smiled sadly. 'By now the
plant and boats are worth nothing, while your diamonds 'Plus fifty
thousand pounds and my promise not to report this affair to the police.
She tried to keep the edge of desperation out of her voice.

Last time it was I who was begging, do you recall?  No, Centaine, even
if I wanted, I could not go back now.  I have burned my bridges.  He
thought about the horses, but could not tell her.  No bargain, Centaine.
Now I must go.  Half the diamonds, leave half, Lothar.

Why?

For the love we once shared.  He laughed bitterly.  You will have to
give me a better reason than that.  All right.  if you take them you
will destroy me, Lothar.  I cannot survive their loss. Already I am
finely drawn.  I will be utterly ruined.  As I was when you took my
boats.  He turned and trudged through the sand to the bank, and she
stood up.

Lothar De La Rey!  she shouted after him.  You refused my offer - then
take my oath instead.  I swear, and I call on God and all his saints to
witness, I swear that I will never rest again until you swing by the
neck from the gallows., He did not look back, but she saw him flinch his
head at the threat.  Then cradling his injured wrist and burdened by the
rifle and the despatch case, he climbed the high bank and was gone.

She sank down on the sand and a wave of reaction swept over her. She
found she was shaking wildly and uncontrollably.  Despondency and
humiliation and despair came at her in waves like a storm surf battering
an unresisting beach, sweeping over it then sucking back and gathering
and rushing forward again.  She found she was weeping, thick, slow tears
dissolving the clots of his drying blood from her lips and chin, and her
tears disgusted her as much as the taste of blood at the back of her
throat.

Disgust gave her the strength and resolution to pull herself to her feet
and cross to the Daimler.  Miraculously the water bag was still on its
bracket.  She washed away the blood and the tears.  She gargled the
taste of his blood from her mouth and spat it pink into the sand and she
thought of following him.

He had taken the revolver and the shotgun was a battered and twisted
piece of steel.

Not yet- she whispered, but very soon.  I have given you my oath on it,
Lothar De La Rey.  Instead she went to the boot of the inverted Daimler.
She had to scoop away the sand with her hands before she could get it
fully open.  She took out the two ten-gallon cans of water and the
canisters of industrial diamonds, carried them to the shade of the bank
and buried them in the sand to hide them and to keep the water as cool
as possible.

Then she returned to the Daimler and impatiently unpacked the other
survival equipment that she always carried, suddenly deadly afraid that
the telegraph tap had been offloaded or forgotten, but it was there in
the tool box with the wheel jack and spanners.

She lugged the reel of wire and the haversack containing the tap as she
followed Lothar's tracks up the bank and found where he had tethered his
horse.

He said he was going to cut the telegraph, She shaded her eyes and
peered along the river course.  He should have guessed I would have
carried a tap with me.  He isn't going ge his two days start. She picked
out the line of telegraph poles cutting across the road loop and the
bend of the river.  The tracks of Lothar's horse followed the bank, and
she broke into a run and trotted along them.

She saw the break in the wires from two hundred yards off.  The severed
copper wires dangled to earth in two lazy inverted parabolas and she
quickened her pace.  When she reached the spot where the telegraph line
crossed the river and looked down the bank she immediately recognized
the remnants of Lothar's camp.  Sand had been hastily kicked over the
fire, but the embers still smouldered.

She dropped the coil of wire and the haversack and scrambled down the
bank.  She found the dugout and realized that more than one man had been
living here for some considerable time.  There were three mattresses of
cut grass.

Three.  She puzzled over it for a few moments, and then worked it out.
He has his bastard with him.  She still couldn't bring herself to think
of Manfred as her son.  And the other one will be Swart Hendrick.  He
and Lothar are inseparable.  She ducked from the dugout and stood for a
moment undecided.  It would take time to rig the tap to the severed
wires, and it was vitally important to find out which way Lothar had
ridden if she was to set the pursuit on him before he got clear.

She made her decision.  I'll rig the telegraph after I know which way to
send them.  It was unlikely he would head east into the Kalahari.

There was nothing out there.

He'll head back towards Windhoek, she guessed, and she made her first
cast in that direction.  The area around the camp was thickly trodden
with spoor of horse and men.

They had been here for at least two weeks, she judged.  Only her Bushman
training enabled her to make sense of the tangled tracks.

They didn't go out that way, she decided at last.  Then they must have
headed south for Gobabis and the Orange river.  She made her next cast
in that direction, circling the southern perimeter of the camp, and when
she found no spoor fresher than the previous day, she looked to the
north.

Surely not.  She was confused.  There is nothing out there before the
Okavango river and Portuguese territory, the horses will never make it
across the wastes of Bushmanland.  Nevertheless she made her next cast
across that northern segment and almost immediately cut the outgoing
spoor, fresh and cleanly printed in the soft earth.

Three riders each leading a spare horse, not an hour ago.

Lothar must be taking the northern route after all.  He is crazy, or he
has worked out something.  She followed the fresh spoor for a mile, to
make certain that he had not doubled or backtracked.  The spoor ran
straight and unwavering into the shimmering heat mists of the northern
wastes, and she shivered as she remembered what it was like out there.

He must be crazy, she whispered.  But I know he isn't.

He's going for the Angola border.  That's his old base from the
ivory-poaching days.  If he reaches the river we'll never see him again.
He has friends over there, the Portuguese traders who bought his ivory.
This time Lothar will have a million pounds of diamonds in his pocket
and the wide world to choose from.  I have to catch him before he gets
across.  Her spirits quailed at the enormity of the idea and she felt
despondency come at her again.  He has prepared this carefully,
everything is in his favour.  We'll never catch him.  She fought off the
beast of despair.  Yes, we will.  We have to.  I have to outwit and beat
him.  I simply have to, just to survive.  She whirled and ran back to
the abandoned camp.

The severed telegraph wires drooped to earth and she gathered the ends
and clipped the bridging wires from the coil to them, drawing them just
taut enough to keep them clear of the earth.

She put her tap into the circuit and screwed the terminals to the pack
of dry-cell batteries.  The batteries had been renewed before she left
Windhoek.  They should still be full of life.  For a dreadful moment her
mind went blank and she could not remember a single letter of the Morse
code, then it returned with a rush and she hammered quickly on the brass
key.

Juno for Vingt.  Acknowledge.  For long seconds there was only echoing
silence in her headphones, then the startling beep of the reply: f Vingt
for Juno.  Go ahead.  She tried to pick the short word and terse
abridged phrase as she told Twenty-man-Jones of the robbery and gave her
position, then went on: Negotiate stand-off with strikers as recovery of
goods mutually essential.  Stop.  Take truck to northern tip of O'chee
Pan and locate Bushman encampment in mongongo forest. Stop.  Bush-leader
named Kvii.  Stop.  Tell Kwi "Nam Child kaleya". Repeat "Nam Child
kaleya, and she gave thanks that the word kaleya bore phonetic rendition
into the Roman alphabet and required neither the complicated tonals nor
the clicks of the Bushman language.  Kaleya was the distress call, the
cry for help that no clan member could ignore.  Bring Kwi with you, she
went on and continued with her further instructions; and when she signed
off Twenty-man-Jones acknowledged and then sent: Are you safe and
unharmed.  Query. Vingt.  Affirmative.  Ends.  Juno.  She mopped the
sweat off her face with the yellow silk scarf.  She was sitting in the
direct rays of the sun.  Then she flexed her fingers and bent once more
to the keyboard and tapped out the call sign of her operator in the
offices of Courtney Mining and Finance Company in Windhoek.

The acknowledgement was prompt.  Obviously the operator had been
following her transmission to Twenty-man-Jones, but she asked: Have you
copied previous?  Affirmative, he tapped back.

Relay previous to Administrator Colonel Blaine Malcomess plus following
for Malcomess.  Quote: Request cooperation in capture of culprits and
recovery of stolen goods.

Stop.  Do you have report on large number stolen horses or purchase of
horses by one Lothar De La Rey within last three months. Respond
soonest.  Ends.  Juno.  The distant operator acknowledged and then
continued: Pettifogger for Juno.  Abe must have been summoned to the
telegraph office the minute they received their first transmission.

Greatly concerned for your safety.  Stop.

Remain your present position.  Stop.  And Centaine exclaimed irritably,
I sucked that egg long ago, Abe.  But she copied the rest of it.

Armed escort left Windhoek 5 am instant.  Stop.  Should reach you early
tomorrow.  Stop.  Stand by for Malcomess.

Ends.  Pettifogger.  The wires were long enough to allow her to move the
keyboard into the strip of shade below the bank and while she waited she
gave all her concentration to the task ahead.

Certain facts were apparent and the first of these was that they were
never going to catch Lothar De La Rey in a stern chase.  He had too long
a lead, and he was going into country over which he had travelled and
hunted for half his life.  He knew it better than any living white man,
better than even she did, but not better than little Kwi.

We have to work out his route and cut him off, and we will have to use
horses.  Trucks will be useless over that terrain.  Lothar knows that,
he is banking on that.  He will choose a route that trucks can never
follow.  She closed her eyes and visualized a map of the northern
territory, that vast forbidding sweep of desert called Bushmanland.

She only knew of surface water at two points, one the place she always
thought of as Elephant Pan, and the other a deep seep below a hillock of
shale.  They were secret Bushman places, both of which old O'wa, her
adopted grandfather, had shown her fifteen years before.  She wondered
if she could find either water-hole again, but she was certain that
Lothar knew them and could ride directly to them.  He probably knew of
other water-holes that she did not.

The beep of the telegraph disturbed her and she reached for it eagerly.

Malcomess for Juno.  Police report theft of 26 horses from military
remount depot Okahandja 3rd of last month.  Stop.

Only two animals recovered.  Stop.  State your further requirements.  I
was right!  Lothar has set up staging posts across the desert, she
exclaimed, and she closed her eyes and tried to visualize a map of the
northern territory, estimating distances and times.  At last she opened
her eyes again, and bent to the telegraph key.

Convinced fugitives attempting to reach Okavango river direct. Stop.
Assemble small mobile force of desert-trained men with spare horses.
Stop.  Rendezvous Kalkrand Mission Station soonest.  Stop.  I will join
you with Bushman trackers.  Twenty-man-Jones reached her before the
escort from Windhoek.  O'chee Pan was on his direct route, only a few
miles from the road.  The company truck came rumbling over the plain and
Centaine ran down the tracks to meet it, waving both hands above her
head and laughing wildly with relief.

She had changed into breeches and riding-boots from her luggage in the
Daimler.

Twenty-man-jones jumped down from the cab and came to her in a
long-legged lolloping run.  He caught her and held her to his chest.

Thank God, he muttered fervently.  Thank God you are safe.  It was the
first time ever that he had embraced her and he was immediately
embarrassed.  He released her and stepped back scowling to cover it.

Did you get Kwi?  she demanded.

In the truck.  Centaine ran to the truck.  Kwi and Fat Kwi were crouched
in the back, clearly both of them terrified by the experience.

They looked like little wild animals in a cage, their dark eyes huge and
swimming.

Nam Child!  shrieked Kwi, and both of them rushed to her for comfort,
twittering and clicking with relief and joy.

She hugged them like frightened children, murmuring assurance and
endearments.

I will be with you now.  There is nothing to fear.  These are good men
and I will not leave you.  Think what stories you will be able to tell
the clan when you return.  You will be famous amongst all the San, your
names will be spoken through all the Kalahari.  And they giggled merrily
at the notion, childlike, their fears all forgotten.

I will be even more famous than Fat Kwi, Kwi boasted, for I am older and
fleeter and cleverer than he is, and Fat Kwi bridled.

You will both be famous.  Hastily Centaine averted the brewing dispute.
For we are going to track evil men who have done me great harm.  You
will follow them and lead me to them, and afterwards I will give you
such gifts as you have seen only in your dreams and all men will say
that there were never before two hunters and trackers such as Kwi and
his brother Fat Kwi.  But now we must hurry before the evil ones escape
us.  She ran back to Twentyrnan-Jones and the little San stayed close at
her heels like faithful dogs.

De La Rey left the industrials.  I've buried them in the river-bed.  She
stopped with surprise when she recognized the two other men with
Twenty-man-jones.  The driver was Gerhard Fourie and his companion was
Maclear, one of the other members of the strike committee.  Both of them
looked sheepish as Maclear spoke for them.

Right pleased we all are to see you safe and well, Mrs Courtney. Wasn't
a man at the mine who wasn't worried sick about you.  Thank you, Mr
Maclean Anything we can do, we'll do.  We are in this together, Mrs
Courtney.  That's right, Mr Maclear.  No diamonds, no wages.  Will you
please help me recover the industrials that the thieves left and then we
will head for Kalkrand.  Have you got enough fuel to get us there, Mr
Fourie?  I'll have you there by morning, Mrs Courtney, the driver
promised.  Kalkrand was the end of the line.  The track went no further.

The road that Fourie took to bring them to Kalkrand was a wide circle,
avoiding the bad land of central Bushmanland.

it headed north and west and then back to the east, so they would be 150
miles north of the point where Lothar had intercepted Centaine but 70
miles farther west when they reached Kalkrand.  Their net gain on Lothar
would be barely 80 miles, even less if he had taken a more easterly
route towards the Okavango river.  Of course it was also possible that
Centaine's guess was wrong and that he had escaped in some other
direction.  She wouldn't let herself even think about that possibility.

There has been other traffic on this road within the last few hours, she
told Twenty-man-Jones as she peered ahead through the windscreen.  It
looks like two other trucks.  Do you think it could be the police
detachment that Colonel Malcomess is sending?  If it is, then the man is
a marvel to have got them away so quickly.  Of course they would have
followed the main road north to Okahandja before turning off in this
direction.  Centaine wanted so badly for it to be so, but
Twenty-man-Jones shook his head dubiously.

More likely a supply convoy for the mission station.  My bet is that we
will have to hang around the mission station waiting for the police and
the horses to arrive., The galvanized roofs of the mission station
appeared out of the morning haze ahead of them.  It was a desolate spot
below a low ridge of red shale probably chosen for the subterranean
water supply.  A pair of gaunt windmills stood like crowned sentinels
over the boreholes that supplied the station.

German Dominican fathers, TWentyman-Jones told Centaine as they bumped
over the last mile.  They serve the nomadic Ovahimba tribes of this
area., Look!  Centaine interrupted him eagerly.  There are the trucks
parked next to the church, and horses watering at the windmill. And
there, look!  A uniformed trooper.  it's them!  They are waiting for us.
Colonel Malcomess was as good as his promise.  Fourie pulled up
alongside the two sand-coloured police trucks and Centaine jumped down
and shouted at the police trooper as he ran to meet them from the
watering troughs below the windmill.

Hello, Constable, who is in charge here

and then she broke off and stared as a tall figure appeared on the
verandah of the stone-walled building beside the little church.

He wore khaki gabardine riding breeches and polished brown boots, and he
was shrugging on a field officer's tunic over his shirt and suspenders,
as he ran lightly down the steps and came towards her.

Colonel Malcomess.  I never expected you to be here in person. 'You
asked for full cooperation, Mrs Courtney.  He offered his hand and
static electricity flashed a blue spark between their finger-tips.
Centaine laughed and jerked her hand away.

Then, when he still held his hand towards her, she took it

again.  His grip was firm and dry and reassuring.

You aren't going into the desert with us, are you?  You have your duties
as administrator.  If I don't go, then you don't either.  He smiled.  I
have received strict instructions from both the prime minister, General
Hertzog, and from the leader of the opposition, General Smuts, that I am
not to let you out of my personal charge. Apparently, madam, you have a
reputation for headstrong action.  The two old gentlemen are very
perturbed.  I have to go, she broke in. 'Nobody else can handle the
Bushman trackers.  Without them the robbers will get clean away.  He
inclined his head in agreement.  I am sure the intention of the two
worthy generals is that neither of us go, but I chose to interpret their
orders rather as instruction that both of us should.  And suddenly he
grinned like a naughty schoolboy about to play truant.  You are stuck
with me, I'm afraid.  She thought of being with him out in the desert,
far from his wife.  For a moment she forgot Lothar De La Rey and the
diamonds, and suddenly she realized that they were still holding hands
and that everybody was watching them.  She dropped his hand and asked
briskly: When can we leave?  in reply he turned and bellowed, Up-saddle!
Up-saddle!  We ride immediately!  While the troopers ran to the horses,
he turned back to her, businesslike and competent.

And now, Mrs Courtney, will you be good enough to let me know your
intentions, and where the hell we are going?  She laughed.  Do you have
a map?  This way.  He led her into the mission office and quickly
introduced her to the two German Dominican fathers who ran the station.
Then he leant over his large-scale map spread on the desk.

Show me what you have in mind, he invited, and she stood beside him, not
quite touching him.

The robbery took place here.  She touched the spot with her fore-finger.
I followed the tracks in this direction.  He is heading for Portuguese
territory.  I am absolutely sure of that.

But he has to go three hundred miles to reach it.  So what you have done
is circled out ahead of him, he nodded, and now you want to ride
eastwards into the desert and cut him off.  But it's a big piece of
country.  Needle in a haystack, don't you think?  Water, she said. 'He
has left his spare horses at water.

I'm sure of that.  The horses stolen from the army?  Yes, I understand,
but there is no water out there.  There is, she told him. 'It's not
marked on the map but he knows where it is.  My bushmen know where it
is.  We will intercept him at one of the water-holes, or we will cut his
spoor there if he has beaten us to it.  He straightened up and rolled
the map.  Do you think that possible?  That he has got ahead of us?
Centaine asked.  You have to remember he is a hard man, and this desert
is his home paddock.  Never underestimate him, Colonel.

That would be a serious mistake.  I have examined the man's record. He
stuffed his map into the leather case and then placed on his head a
khaki solar helmet of thick cork with a sweeping rim that protected his
neck.  It covered his ears and increased his already impressive height.

He is a dangerous man.  He once had a price of ten thousand pounds on
his head.  I don't expect this to be easy.  A police sergeant appeared
in the doorway behind him.

All ready, Colonel.  Do you have Mrs Courtney's mount saddled? 'Yes,
sir!  The sergeant was lean and brown and muscular, with thick drooping
moustaches, and Centaine approved the choice.  Blaine Malcomess saw her
scrutiny.

This is Sergeant Hansmeyer.  He and I are old companions from Smuts
campaign.  How do you do, Mrs Courtney.  Heard all about you, ma'am, the
sergeant saluted her.

Glad to have you with us, Sergeant.  Quickly they shook hands with the
Dominican fathers and went out into the sunlight.  Centaine went to the
big strong bay gelding Blaine had allocated to her and adjusted her
stirrup leathers.

Mount up!  Blaine Malcomess ordered, and while the sergeant and his four
troopers swung up into the saddle, Centaine turned quickly to
Twenty-man-jones.

I wish I was coming with you, Mrs Courtney, he said.

TWenty years ago nothing would have stopped me.  She smiled. 'Hold
thumbs for us.  if we don't get those diamonds back you'll probably be
working for De Beers again and I'll be doing needlework in the
poorhouse.  Rot the swine who did this to you, he said.  Bring him back
in chains.  Centaine went up onto the gelding's back and he felt good
and steady under her.  She kneed him up beside Blaine's horse.

You can slip your hunting dogs, Mrs Courtney.  He smiled at her.

Take us to the water, Kwi, she called, and the two little Bushmen, their
bows and quivers of poisoned arrows on their naked backs, turned to face
the east.  Their small heads covered with peppercorns of dark wool
bobbing their tight round buttocks bulging out from their brief
loincloths and neat childlike feet flying, they went away.  They were
born to run, and the horses extended into a trot to hold them in sight.

Centaine and Blaine rode side by side at the head of the column. The
sergeant and his four troopers followed in single file, each of them
trailing two spare horses on lead reins.  The spare horses carried
water, twenty gallons in big felt-covered round bottles, three days
supply if they used it with care, for men and animals were
desert-hardened.

Centaine and Blaine rode in silence, though every once in a while she
glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

impressive on his feet, Blaine was imperial in the saddle.

Mounted he had become a centaur, part of the horse beneath him, and she
saw now how he had earned his international reputation as a polo player.

Watching him she found herself correcting little flaws in her own
carriage and seat on the horse, bad habits which she had drifted into
over the years, until she looked as good as he did in the saddle.  She
felt she could ride for ever across this desert she loved with this man
at her side.

They crossed the ridge of weathered shale and Blaine spoke for the first
time.  You were right.  We would never have got the trucks across there.
It had to be on horseback.  We haven't hit the calcrete yet, and then
there is the sand.  We'd be forever digging out the wheels, she agreed.

The miles drifted back behind them.  The Bushmen bobbed ahead of them,
never wavering but running straight and certain towards their distant
goal.  Every hour Blaine halted the column and let the horses blow while
he dismounted and went back to talk quietly to his men, getting to know
them, checking the panniers on the spare horses, making certain that
they were not galling, taking precautions to avert fatigue and injury
before they arose.  Then when the five minutes was up he ordered them
forward again at the trot.

They rode until it was fully dark before he halted them; then he
supervised the issue of water and made sure the horses were rubbed down
and knee-haltered before he came to the small fire at which Centaine
sat.  She had completed her own chores, seeing the Bushmen fed and
settled for the night, and now she was preparing the meal for Blaine and
herself.  She handed him the mess tin as he squatted opposite her.

I regret, sir, that the pheasant and caviar is off the menu.

However, I can heartily recommend the bully beef stew.  Strange how good
it tastes when you eat it like this.  He ate with honest appetite, then
scrubbed the empty plate with dry sand and handed it back to her.  He
lit a cheroot with a twig from the fire.  And how good a cheroot tastes
with a trace of wood-smoke.  She tidied and packed for a quick start in
the morning and then came back to the fire and hesitated as she reached
her seat opposite him.  He moved over on the saddle cloth on which he
was sitting, leaving half of it free, and without a word she crossed to
it and sat with her legs curled up under her.  Only inches separated
them.

It's so beautiful, she murmured, looking up at the night sky. 'The stars
are so close.  I feel I could reach up and pluck them, and wear them
around my neck like a garland of wild flowers.  Poor stars, he said
softly.  They would pale into insignificance.  She turned her head and
smiled at him, letting the compliment he between them, savouring it for
a moment before she lifted her face to the sky again. 'That is my
personal star.  She pointed out A crux in the Great Cross. Michael had
chosen it for her.  Michael, she felt a sting of guilt at his memory,
but it was not so sharp now.

Which is your star?  she asked.

Should I have one?  Yes!  she nodded.  It's absolutely essential.  She
paused, then went on almost shyly, Would you let me choose one for you?
I would be honoured.  He wasn't mocking her, he was serious as she was.

There.  She swivelled towards the north, where the path of the Zodiac
was blazed across the sky.  That star there, Regulus, in the
constellation of the Lion, your birth sign.  I choose that and I give it
to you, Blaine.  She used his given name at last.

And I accept it most gratefully.  Every time I see it from now on, I
will think of you, Centaine.  it was a love token, given and accepted,
both of them understood that and they were silenced by the significance
of the moment.

How did you know that my birth sign was Leo?  he asked at last.

I found out, she answered guilelessly.  I thought it was necessary to
know.  You were born on 28 July 1893.  And you, he replied, were born on
the first day of the new century.  You were named for that.  I found
out.  I also thought it necessary to know. They were riding long before
it was light the next morning, eastwards again with the Bushmen their
harbingers.

The sun rose and its heat crushed down upon them, drying the sweat upon
the horses flanks into white salt crystals.

The troopers rode hunched down as though under a heavy burden. The sun
swung through its zenith and slid down into the west.  Their shadows
stretched out on the earth ahead of them and colour returned to the
desert, shades of ochre and peachy rose and burnt amber.

Ahead of them Kwi stopped suddenly and snuffled the dry flinty air with
his flattened nostrils.  Fat Kwi imitated him, like a pair of gun-dogs
scenting the pheasant.

What are they doing?  Blaine asked, as they reined up behind. Before she
could answer, Kwi let out a piping cry and then went away at a full run,
Fat Kwi streaking after him.

Water.  Centaine stood in the stirrups.  They have smelled the water.
Are you serious?  he stared at her.

I couldn't believe it the first time, she laughed.  O'wa could smell it
from five miles.  Come on, I'll prove it to you.  She urged the gelding
into a canter.

Ahead of them a low irregularity in the terrain appeared out of the
dusty haze, a hillock of purple shale, bare of all vegetation except for
a strange antediluvian tree on its summit, a kokerboom with bark like a
reptile's skin.  Centaine felt a pang of memory and nostalgia.  She
recognized the place.  She had last been here with the two little yellow
people she had loved, and Shasa heavy in her womb.

Before they reached the hillock, Kwi and Fat Kwi broke their run and
stopped, side by side, to examine the earth at their feet.  They were
chattering excitedly when Centaine rode up, and she translated for
Blaine, her tongue tripping with her own excitement.

We have cut the spoor.  It's De La Rey, no doubt about it.

Three riders coming up from the south heading for the fountain. They
have abandoned their used-up horses, and they're riding hard, pushing
their mounts to the limit.  The horses are floundering already.

De La Rey has judged it finely.  Centaine could barely contain her
relief.  She had guessed right.  Lothar was heading for the Portuguese
border after all.

He and the diamonds were not far ahead of them.

How long, Kwi?  she demanded anxiously, springing down to examine the
spoor for herself.

This morning, Nam Child, the little Bushman told her, pointing to the
sky, showing where the sun had stood when Lothar passed.

Just after dawn.  We are eight hours or so behind them, she told Blaine.

That's a lot to make up.  He looked serious.  Every minute we can save
will count from now on.  Troop forward!  When they were half a mile from
the hillock with its kokerboom crest, Centaine told Blaine, 'There have
been other horses grazing around here.  A large troop of them over many
weeks.  Their sign is everywhere.  It was just as we guessed, De La Rey
has had one of his men herding them here.  We should find further
evidence of that at the waterhole.  She broke off and peered ahead.
There were three dark amorphous heaps lying at the base of the hill.

What are they?  Blaine was as puzzled as she was.  Only when they rode
up did they realize what they were.

Dead horses!  Centaine exclaimed.  De La Rey must have shot his used-up
horses.  No.  Blaine had dismounted to examine the carcasses. 'No bullet
holes.  Centaine looked around.  She saw the primitive stockade in which
the fresh horses had been kept awaiting Lothar's arrival and the small
thatched hut where the man left to tend them had lived.

Kwi, she called to the Bushman.  Find the spoor going away from here.
Fat Kwi, search the camp.  Look for anything which will tell us more
about these evil men that we are chasing.  Then she urged her gelding
towards the fountain head.

It lay beneath the hillock.  Subterranean water had been trapped between
strata of the impervious purple shale and brought to the surface here.
The hooves of wild game and the bare feet of San people who had drunk
here over the millennia had worn down the shale banks. The water lay
fifteen feet down in the bottom of a steep conical depression.

On the side nearest the hillock a layer of shale overhung the pool like
the roof of a verandah, shading the water from direct rays of the sun,
cooling it and protecting it from rapid evaporation.  It was a tiny
clear pool, not much larger than a bath tub, fed constantly by the up
welling from the earth.

From experience, Centaine knew that it was brackish with dissolved
minerals and salts, and strongly tainted with the droppings and urine of
the birds and animals that drank from the spring.

The pool itself held her attention for only a second, and then she
stiffened in the saddle and her hand flew to her mouth, an instinctive
expression of her horror as she stared at the crude manmade structure
that had been erected on the bank at the edge of the pool.

A thick branch of camel-thorn had been peeled of its bark and planted in
the hard earth as a signpost.  At its base rocks had been piled in a
pyramid to support it, and on its summit an empty half-gallon can had
been placed like a helmet.

Below the can a plank was nailed to the post, and on it were burned
black charred words, probably written with the tip of a ramrod heated in
the fire:

THIS WELL IS POISONED

The empty can was bright red with a black skull and crossbones device
and below that the dreaded title:

ARSENIC

Blaine had come up beside her and they were both so silent that Centaine
imagined she could hear the shale beneath them ticking softly like a
cooling oven, then Blaine spoke: The dead horses, he said, 'that
accounts for it.  The dirty bastard.  His voice crackled with outrage.
He pulled his horse around and galloped across to join the troop.
Centaine heard him calling, Sergeant.  Check the water that is left. The
well is poisoned, and Sergeant Hansmeyer whistled softly.

Well, that's the end of the chase.  We will be lucky to get back to
Kalkrand again.  Centaine found she was trembling with anger and
frustration.  He is going to get clean away, she told herself.  He has
won on the first trick.  The gelding smelled the water and tried to get
down the bank.  She forced him away with her knees, slapping him across
the neck with the loose end of the reins.  She tethered him at the end
of the horse line and measured a ration of oats and mash into his nose
bag.

Blaine came to her.  I'm sorry, Centaine, he said quietly.

We'll have to turn back.  To go on without water is suicide.  I know.
It's a pretty filthy trick.  He shook his head.  Poisoning a water-hole
that supports so much desert life.  The destruction will be horrible.  I
have only seen it done once before.

When we were on the march up from Walvis in 1915, he broke off as little
Kwi came trotting up to them chattering excitedly.  What does he say? He
asked.

One of the men we are following is sick, Centaine answered quickly.  Kwi
has found these bandages.  Kwi had a double handful of stained and
soiled cloth which he offered to Centaine.

Put them down, Kwi, she ordered sharply.  She could smell the pus and
corruption on the bundle.  Obediently Kwi set it down at her feet, and
Blaine drew the bayonet from its scabbard on his belt to spread the
strips of cloth on the sand.

The mask!  Centaine exclaimed, as she recognized the flour sack that
Lothar had worn over his head.  it was stiff with dried blood and yellow
pus, as were the strips torn from a khaki shirt.

The sick man lay down while the other changed the saddles to the new
horses, and then they had to lift him to his feet and help him to mount.
Kwi had read all this from the spoor.

I bit him, Centaine said softly.  While we were struggling I sank my
teeth into his wrist.  I felt the bone.  it was a very deep wound I gave
him.  A human bite is almost as dangerous as a snake bite, Blaine
nodded.  Untreated it will nearly always turn to blood-poisoning.  De La
Rey is a sick man, and his arm must be a mess, judging by these.  He
touched the reeking bandages with the toe of his riding-boot.  We would
have had him.  In his condition, we would almost certainly have caught
him before he reached the Okavango river. If only we had enough water to
go on.  He turned away, unwilling to watch her unhappiness, and he spoke
sharply to Sergeant Hansmeyer. 'Half water rations from now on,
Sergeant.  We will start back to the mission at nightfall.  Travel in
the cool of the night.  Centaine could not stand still.  She whirled and
strode back towards the water-hole, and stood at the top of the bank
staring at the notice board with its fatal message.

How could you do it, Lothar?  she whispered.  You are a hard and
desperate man, but this is a dreadful thing, She went slowly down the
steep bank and squatted at the edge of the water.  She reached out and
touched the water with her fingertip.  It was cold, cold as death, she
thought, and wiped the finger carefully on the leg of her breeches as
she stared into the pool.

She thought about Blaine's remark, I have only seen it done once before.
When we were on the march up from Walvis in 1915, and suddenly a
forgotten conversation sprang up from deep in her mind where it had lain
buried all these years.  She remembered Lothar De La Rey's face in the
firelight, his eyes haunted as he confessed to her.

We had to do it, or at least at the time I thought we did.

The Union forces were pressing us so hard.  If I had guessed at the
consequences, He had broken off and stared into the fire.  She had loved
him so dearly then.  She had been his woman.  Though she did not yet
know it, she already had his child in her womb, and she had reached out
and taken his hand to comfort him.

It doesn't matter, she had whispered, but he had turned a tragic face to
her.

It does matter, Centaine, he had told her.  It was the foulest thing I
have ever done.  I returned to the water-hole a month later like a
murderer.  I could smell it from a mile or more.  The dead were
everywhere, zebra and gemsbok, jackals and little desert foxes, birds,
even the vultures that had feasted on the rotting carcasses.  So much
death.  It was something that I will remember on the day I die, the one
thing in my life of which I am truly ashamed, something I will have to
answer for.  Centaine straightened up slowly.  She felt her rage and
disappointment slowly snuffed out by a rising tide of excitement.  She
touched the water again and watched the circle of ripples spread out
across the limpid surface.

He meant it, she spoke aloud.  He was truly ashamed.

He could never have done the same thing again.  She shivered with dread
as she decided what she was going to do, and to bolster her courage she
went on in a voice that shook slightly, It's a bluff.  The notice is a
bluff.  It must be, then she broke off as she remembered the three dead
horses.  He put them down.  They were finished, and he used poison on
them as part of the bluff.  Probably gave it to them in a bucket, but
not the water-hole.  He wouldn't have done that twice. Slowly she took
the hat from her head and used the wide brim to skim the floating layer
of dust and rubbish from the surface of the pool. Then she scooped a
hatful of the clear cool water, holding it in both hands, steeling
herself to do it.  She took a deep breath and touched the water with her
lips.

Centaine!  Blaine roared in shock and rage as he bounded down the bank
and snatched the hat out of her hands.  The water splashed over her legs
soaking her breeches.  He seized her by the arms and jerked her to her
feet.  His face was swollen and dark, his eyes blazing with anger as he
shouted in her face.  Have you gone stark staring mad, woman?  He was
shaking her brutally, his fingers digging into the flesh of her upper
arms.

Blaine, you are hurting me.  Hurting you?  I could willingly thrash you,
you crazy Blaine, it's a bluff, I'm sure of it.  She was frightened of
him.  His rage was a terrible thing to watch.  Blaine. Please!

Please listen to me.  She saw the change in his eyes as he regained
control.  Oh God, he said, I thought, You are hurting me, she repeated
stupidly, and he released her.

I'm sorry.  He was panting as though he had run a marathon. 'Don't do
that to me again, woman, next time I don't know what I will do.  Blaine!
Listen to me.  It's a bluff.  He didn't poison the water.  I would stake
my life on it.  ,you almost did, he growled at her, but he was listening
now.  How did you reach that conclusion?  He leaned closer to her,
interested and ready to be convinced.

I knew him once.  Knew him well.  I heard him make an oath.  it was he
who poisoned the water-hole you talked about, back in 1915.  He admitted
it, but he swore that he would never be able to do it again. He
described the carnage at the water-hole, and he swore an oath.  The dead
horses lying out there, Blaine demanded, how do you explain them?  All
right.  He poisoned them.  He would have to have destroyed them anyway.
They were broken; he couldn't leave them for the lions. He strode to the
edge of the water and stared down into it.

You were going to take that chance, he broke off and shuddered, then
turned from the water and called sharply.

Sergeant Hansmeyer!  Sir.  The sergeant hurried across from the horse
lines.

Sergeant, bring the lame mare to me, and Hansmeyer went to the lines and
led the animal back.  She was favouring her right fore and they would
have to leave her anyway.

Let her drink!  Blaine ordered.

Sir?  Hansmeyer looked puzzled, and then when he realized Blaine's
intention, he became alarmed.  From the spring?  It's poisoned, sir.
That's what we are going to find out, Blaine told him grimly.  Let her
drink!  Eagerly the black mare scrambled down the bank and bent her long
neck to the pool.

She sucked up the water in great gulps.  It sloshed and gurgled into her
belly, and she seemed to swell before their eyes.

I didn't think to use one of the horses, Centaine whispered. 'Oh, it
will be terrible if I have guessed wrongly.  Hansmeyer let the mare
drink until she was satiated, and then Blaine ordered, Take her back to
the lines.  He checked his wristwatch.  We'll give her an hour, he
decided, and took Centaine's hand.  He led her to the shade thrown by
the overhang of the bank and they sat together.

You say you knew him?  he asked at last.  How well did you know him?  He
worked for me, years ago.  He did the first development work at the
mine.  He is an engineer, you know.  Yes.  I know he is an engineer.
It's in his file.  He was silent.  You must have got to know him very
well for him to admit something like that to you?  It's a very intimate
thing, a man's guilt.  She did not reply.  What can I tell him?  she
thought.  That I was Lothar De La Rey's mistress?  That I loved him and
bore him a son?  Suddenly Blaine chuckled.  Jealousy is really one of
the most unlovely emotions, isn't it?  I withdraw the question.

It was impertinent.  Forgive me.  She laid her hand on his arm and
smiled at him gratefully.

That doesn't mean I have forgiven you for the fright you gave me, he
told her with mock severity.  I could still quite happily turn you over
my knee.  The thought of it gave her a funny little perverse twinge of
excitement.  His rage had frightened her and that excited her also.  He
had not shaved since they had left the mission.

His new beard was thick and dark as the pelt of an otter except there
was a single silver hair in it.  It grew at the corner of his mouth,
shining like a star in the night.

What are you staring at?  he asked.

I was wondering if your beard would scratch, if you decided to kiss me
instead of spanking me.  She saw him struggling like a drowning man in a
rip tide of temptation.  She imagined the fears and the doubts and the
anguish of wanting that boiled behind those green eyes, and she waited,
her face turned up to him, neither pulling back nor thrusting forward,
waiting for him to accept the inevitability of it.

When he took her mouth it was fiercely, almost roughly, as though he was
angry with his own inability to resist, and angry with her for leading
him into this dangerous wilderness of infidelity.  He sucked all the
strength out of her body so that she went limp in his arms, only the
grip of her own arms around his neck matched his and her mouth was deep
and wet and soft and open for him to probe.

He broke away from her at last and sprang to his feet.  He stood over
her, looking down at her.  May God have pity on us, he whispered, and
strode away up the bank, leaving her alone with her joy and disquiet and
guilt and with the raging flame he had kindled in her belly.

Sergeant Hansmeyer summoned her at last.  He came to the pool and stood
at the top of the bank.

Colonel Malcomess is asking for you, Missus.  She followed him back to
the horse lines, and she felt strangely detached from reality. Her feet
seemed not to touch the earth and everything was dreamlike and far away.

Blaine stood with the lame mare, holding her head and stroking her neck.
She made little fluttering sounds in her nostrils and nibbled at the
front of his tunic.  Blaine looked over her head as Centaine came up on
the mare's other side.

They stared at each other.

No turning back, he said softly, and she accepted the ambiguity of his
words.  We go forward, together.  Yes, Blaine, she agreed meekly.

And to hell with the consequences, he said harshly.

A second longer they held each other's eyes, and then Blaine lifted his
voice.  Sergeant, water all the horses and fill the bottles.  We have
nine hours to make up on the chase.  They kept going through the night.
The little Bushmen stayed on the spoor with only the stars and a sliver
of moon to light it for them, and when the sun rose the tracks were
still strung out ahead of them, each filled with purple shadow by the
acutely slanted rays.

Now there were four riders in the fleeing band, for the horse herder
from the fountain had joined them and they were leading a spare horse
each.

An hour after dawn, they found where the fugitives had camped the
previous night.  Lothar had abandoned two of his horses here; they had
broken down from the brutal treatment, hard riding in these severe
conditions.  They stood beside the remains of the camp fire which Lothar
had smothered with sand.  Kwi brushed away the sand and knelt to blow on
the ashes, a tiny flame sprang up under his breath and he grinned like a
pixie.

We have made up five or six hours on them while they slept, Blaine
murmured, and looked at Centaine.  She straightened up immediately from
her weary slump but she was pale and light-headed with fatigue.

He's using up his horses like a prodigal, she said, and they both looked
at the two animals that Lothar had abandoned.  They stood with heads
hanging, muzzles almost touching the ground, a pair of chestnut mares,
one with a white blazed forehead and the other with white socks.

Both of them moved only with pain and difficulty, and their tongues were
black and swollen, protruding from the sides of their mouths.

He did not waste water on them, Blaine agreed.  Poor devils. 'You will
have to put them down, Centaine said.

That's why he left them, Centaine, he said gently.

I don't understand.  The shots, he explained.  He'll be listening for
gunfire job Blaine!  What are we going to do?  We can't leave them. Make
coffee and breakfast.  We are all played out, horses and men.  We must
rest for a few hours before we go on.  He swung down from the saddle and
untied his blanket roll.  in the meantime I will take care of the
cripples.  He shook out his sheepskin under-blanket as he walked across
to the first mare.  He stopped in front of her and unbuckled the flap of
his holster.  He drew his service pistol and wrapped the sheepskin over
his right hand that held the pistol.

The mare dropped instantly to the muted thud of the pistol, and kicked
spasmodically before relaxing into stillness.  Centaine looked away,
busying herself with measuring coffee into the billy as Blaine walked
heavily across to the blazed chesnut mare.

There was a tiny movement of air, not truly a sound, light as the flirt
of a sun-bird's wing, but both Swart Hendrick and Lothar De La Rey
lifted their heads and pulled up their mounts.  Lothar raised his hand
for silence and they waited, holding their breath.

It came again, another spit of distant muted gunfire, and Lothar and
Hendrick glanced at each other.

The arsenic trick did not work, grunted the big black Ovambo. 'You
should have really poisoned the water, not pretended, and Lothar shook
his head wearily.

She must be riding like a she-devil.  They are only four hours behind
us, less if they push their horses.  I never believed she could come on
so quickly.  You cannot be sure that it is her, Hendrick told him.

It's her.  Lothar showed no trace of doubt.  She promised me she would
come.  His voice was hoarse, his lips cracked and flaky with dry skin.
His eyes were bloodshot, gummed with yellow mucus thick as clotted cream
and deeply underscored with bruised purple smudges.  His beard was
particoloured, gold and ginger and white.

His arm was wrapped in bandage to the elbow, the yellow discharge had
seeped through the cloth.  He had looped a cartridge belt around his
neck as a sling, and the arm was supported partly by the belt and partly
by the black japanned despatch case strapped to the pommel of his
saddle.

He turned to look back across the plain with its sparse covering of
scrub and camel-thorn, but the movement brought on another wave of
giddiness and he swayed and snatched at the despatch case to prevent
himself falling.

Pa!  manfred grabbed his good arm, his face contorted with concern.  Pa!
Are you all right?  Lothar closed his eyes before he could answer.  All
right, he croaked.  He could feel the infection swelling and distorting
the flesh of his hand and forearm.  The skin felt thin and stretched to
the point of bursting like an overripe plum, and the heat of the poison
flowed with his blood.  He could feel it throbbing painfully in the
glands below his armpit and from there spreading out through his whole
body, squeezing the sweat out through his skin, burning his eyes and
pounding in his temples, shimmering a desert mirage in his brain.

Go on,he whispered.  Got to go on,and Hendrick picked up the lead rein
with which he was guiding Lothar's horse.

Wait!  blurted Lothar, rocking in the saddle.  How far to the next
water?  We'll be there before noon tomorrow.  Lothar was trying to
concentrate but the fever filled his head with steam and heat.

The horse irons.  It's time for the horse irons.  Hendrick nodded.  They
had carried the horse irons from the cache in the hills. They weighed
seventy pounds, a heavy burden for one of the lead horses.

It was time to be rid of some of that weight now.

We'll give her a bait to lead her onto them, Lothar croaked.

The short rest, the hasty meal and even the strong, hot, over-sweetened
coffee seemed only to have increased Centaine's fatigue.

I will not let him see it, she told herself firmly.  I'll not give in
until they do.  But her skin felt so dry that it might tear like paper
and the glare ached in her eyes, filling her skull with pain.

She glanced sideways at Blaine.  He sat straight and tall in the saddle,
invincible and indefatigable, but he turned his head and his eyes
softened as he looked at her.

We'll break for a drink in ten minutes, he told her softly.

I'm all right, she protested.

We are all tired, he said.  There is no shame in admitting it. He broke
off and shaded his eyes, peering ahead.

What is it?  she demanded.

I'm not sure.  He lifted the binoculars that hung on his chest and
focused them on the dark blob far ahead that had caught his attention. I
still can't recognize what it is.  He passed the glasses to her and
Centaine stared through them.

Blaine!  she exclaimed.  The diamonds!  It's the diamond case! They have
dropped the diamonds.  Her fatigue fell away from her like a discarded
cape and before he could stop her she put her heels into her gelding's
flanks and urged him into a gallop, overtaking the Bushmen.

The two spare horses were forced to follow her, straining on their lead
reins, the water bottles bouncing wildly on their backs.

Centaine!  Blaine shouted, and spurred his mount after her, trying to
catch her.

Sergeant Hansmeyer had been drooping in the saddle, but he roused
himself instantly as the two leaders galloped away.

Troop, forward!  he shouted, and the whole party was tearing ahead.

Suddenly Centaine's gelding screamed with agony and reared under her.
She was almost thrown from the saddle, but recovered her balance with a
fine feat of horsemanship, and then the spare horses were whinnying and
kicking and lashing out in agony.  Blaine tried to turn out, but he was
too late and his mount broke down under him, his spare horses shrieking
and bucking on their leads.

Halt!  he screamed, turning desperately to try and stop Sergeant
Hansmeyer's charge, signalling him with both arms.  Halt!  Troop, halt!
The Sergeant reacted swiftly, swinging his mount to block the troopers
who followed him, and they came up short in a tangle of milling,
tramping horses, the dust swirling over them in a fine mist.

Centaine sprang down from the saddle and checked her gelding's front
legs, they were both sound and she lifted a rear hoof and stared in
disbelief.  A burr of rusted iron was stuck to the frog of the gelding's
hoof and dark blood was already pouring from the wound it had inflicted,
mingling into a muddy paste with the fine desert dust.

Gingerly Centaine took hold of the metal rose and tried to pull it away,
but it was buried deeply and the gelding trembled with the pain. She
tugged and twisted, carefully avoiding the protruding spikes, and at
last the horrible thing came free in her hand, wet with the gelding's
blood.  She straightened and looked across at Blaine.  He also had been
busy with his own mount's feet and held two of the bloody irons in his
hands.

Horse irons, Blaine told her.  I haven't seen the cruel damned things
since the war.  They were crudely forged, shaped like the ubiquitous
devil thorns of the African veld, four pointed stars aligned so that one
point was always standing upright.  Three inches of sharp iron that
would cripple man or beast, or would slash the tyres of a following
vehicle.

Centaine looked around and saw that the earth all around where she stood
was strewn with the wicked spikes.  Dust had been lightly brushed over
them to conceal them from casual observation but had in no way reduced
their effectiveness.

Quickly she stooped again to the task of ridding all three of her horses
of the spikes.  The gelding had picked them up in both rear hooves and
the spare horses had three and two hooves damaged.  She plucked the iron
spikes from their flesh and hurled them away angrily.

Sergeant Hansmeyer had dismounted his troopers and they came up to
assist her and Blaine, stepping cautiously for the spikes would readily
penetrate the soles of their boots.  They cleared a narrow corridor
through which the horses could be led back to safe ground, but all six
of them had been brutally maimed.  They hobbled slowly and painfully,
reluctant to touch the earth with their damaged hooves.

Six of them, Blaine whispered bitterly.  Wait until I get my hands on
that bastard.  He drew the .303 rifle from the scabbard on his saddle
and ordered Hansmeyer, Put our saddles onto two of your spare horses.
Top up all the water bottles from those on the crippled horses.  Have
two of your troopers mark a path around the area of the horse irons.

Move it quickly!  We can't waste a minute.  Centaine left them and went
forward, cautiously circling around the booby-trapped patch of earth.
She reached the black japanned despatch case which had deceived her and
picked it up.  The lid flapped open, the lock smashed by Lothar's
bullet, and she turned the case upside down.  it was empty. She let it
drop and looked back.

Blaine's men had worked swiftly.  Their saddles had been transferred to
undamaged horses.  They had chosen a black gelding for her and Sergeant
Hansmeyer was leading it.  The whole troop was circling out in single
file, leaning out of the saddle to check for any more horse irons in
their path.

She knew that from now on they would not be able to relax for a moment,
for she knew that Lothar would not have laid all his spikes. They would
find more along the spoor.

Hansmeyer came up beside her.  We are ready to go, ma'am.  He handed her
the reins to the fresh horse and she mounted, then they all looked back.

Blaine stood with the Lee Enfield rifle on his hip, and with his back
turned to them faced the line of six crippled horses.

He seemed to be praying, or perhaps he was merely steeling himself, but
his head was bowed.

He lifted it slowly and threw the butt of the rifle to his shoulder.  He
fired without lowering the rifle, his right hand flicking the bolt back
and forth, and the shots crashing out in rapid succession, blending into
a long-drawn-out drumroll of sound.  The horses fell on top of one
another, in a twitching, jerking pile.  He turned away then, and even at
that distance Centaine glimpsed his expression.

She found she was weeping.  The tears poured down her face, and she
could not stop them.  Blaine rode up beside her.  He glanced at her, and
when he saw her tears, he stared straight ahead, letting her get over
it.

We have lost nearly an hour, he said.  Troop forward!  Twice more before
nightfall the Bushman stopped the column and they had to pick their way
cautiously around a scattering of the wicked spikes. Each time it cost
them precious minutes.

We are losing ground, Blaine estimated.  They heard the rifle shots and
they are alerted.  They know they have got fresh horses waiting
somewhere ahead.  They are pushing harder, much harder than we dare. The
country changed with dramatic suddenness as they emerged from the wastes
of Bushmanland into the gently wooded more benevolent Kavango area.

Along the undulating ridges of the ancient compacted dunes grew tall
trees, combreturn the lovely bush willow, and albizia with its fine
feathery foliage, and stands of young mopani between them.  The shallow
valleys were covered with fine desert grasses whose silver and pink seed
heads brushed their stirrups irons as they rode through.

The water was not far below the surface here and all Nature seemed to
respond to its presence.  For the first time since leaving the mission
at Kalkland, they saw large game, zebra and red-golden impala, and they
knew that the waterhole for which they were riding could be only a few
miles ahead for these animals would drink daily.

It was not too soon for all the horses were used up and weak, struggling
onwards beneath the weight of their riders.

A few inches remained in the water bottles, seeming to mock their thirst
with hollow gurgles at each pace.

Lothar De La Rey could not remain in the saddle unaided.

Swart Hendrick rode on one side of him and his bastard son Klein Boy on
the other.  They supported him when sudden bouts of delirium overcame
him and he laughed and ranted and would have slipped from the saddle and
tumbled to earth.  Manfred trailed behind them, watching his father
anxiously, but too exhausted and thirsty to assist him.

They struggled up another rise in the endless succession of consolidated
dunes, and Swart Hendrick stood in the stirrups and peered down into the
gentle basin ahead of them, barely daring to hope that they had been
able to ride directly to their destination through the trackless land
where every vista mirrored the previous one and the one that followed.

All they had to steer by was the sun and the instinct of the desert
creature.

Then his spirits soared, for ahead of them there were the tall grey
mopani trunks nurtured into giants by the water over which they stood
and the four great umbrella acacia exactly as they had been imprinted in
his memory.  Between their trunks Hendrick caught the soft sheen of
standing water.

The horses managed a last jolting trot down the slope and through the
trees, and then out over the bare clay that surrounded the shrunken
puddle of water in the centre.

The water was the colour of cafg all lait, not ten paces across at the
widest point nor deeper than a man's knee.

Around it the hoof-prints and pad marks of dozens of various types of
wild animals, from the tiny multiple V scratches of quail and francolin
to the huge round prints of a bull elephant the size of dustbin lids,
had been sculpted into the black clay and then baked by the sun as hard
as concrete.

Hendrick and Klein Boy drove their mounts into the centre of the pool
and then flung themselves face down into the lukewarm muddy water,
snorting and gasping and laughing wildly as they scooped it into their
mouths.

Manfred helped his father to dismount at the edge, and then ran to scoop
a hatful and bring it to Lothar where he had collapsed into a sitting
position, supporting himself on his own knees.

Lothar drank greedily, choking and coughing as the water went down the
wrong way.  His face was flushed and swollen, his eyes fever-bright and
the poison in his blood burning him up.

Swart Hendrick waded to the side, his boots squelching and water pouring
from his sodden clothing, still grinning until a thought struck him and
he stopped.  The grin was gone from his thick black lips and he glared
about him.

Nobody here, he grunted.  Buffalo and Legs, where are they?  He broke
into a run, spraying water at each pace as he headed for the primitive
hut that stood in the shade of the nearest umbrella acacia.

It was empty and derelict.  The charcoal of the camp-fire was scattered
widely; the freshest signs were days, no, weeks old.  He raged through
the forest, and at last came back to Lothar.  Between them Klein Boy and
Manfred had helped Lothar into the shade and he lay back against the
trunk of the acacia.

They've deserted.  Lothar anticipated Hendrick's report.

I should have known.  Ten horses, worth fifty pounds each.

It was too much temptation.  The rest and the water seemed to have
strengthened him; he was lucid again.

They must have run away within days of us leaving them.  Hendrick sank
down beside him.  Surely they have taken the horses and sold them to the
Portuguese, then gone home to their wives!  Promise me that when you see
them again you will kill them slowly, Hendrick, very slowly.  I dream of
how I will do it, Hendrick whispered.  First I will make them eat their
own manhoods, I will cut them off with a blunt knife and will feed them
to them in small pieces.  They were both silent, staring at the small
group of their four horses which stood at the pool's edge.  Their
bellies were distended with water but their heads were hanging
pathetically, noses almost touching the baked clay.

Seventy miles to the river, seventy miles at least.  Lothar broke the
silence, and he began to unwrap the filthy rags that covered his arm.

The swelling was grotesque.  His hand was the size and shape of a ripe
melon.  The fingers stuck stiffly out of the blue ball of flesh. The
swelling carried up the forearm to the elbow, trebling the girth of his
lower limb, and the skin had burst open and clear lymph leaked out of
the tears.  The bite wounds were deep, slimy, yellow pits, the edges
flared open like the petals of a flower, and the smell of infection was
sweet and thick as oil in Lothar's own nostrils and throat, disgusting
him.

Above the elbow the swelling was not So intense, but there were livid
scarlet lines beneath the skin running right up to Lothar's shoulder. He
reached up and gently explored the swollen glands in his armpit.  They
were hard as musket balls buried in his flesh.

Gangrene, he told himself, and he realized now that the carbolic acid
solution with which he had originally cleansed the bite wounds had
aggravated the condition.  Too strong he muttered.  Too strong solution.
It had destroyed the capillary vessels around the wound, preparing the
way for the gangrene that had followed.  The hand should come off.  He
faced the fact at last, and for a moment he even considered attempting
the operation himself.  He imagined starting at the elbow joint and
cutting I can't do it, he decided.  I can't even think of it.  I have to
go on as far as the gangrene will let me, for Manie's sake.  He looked
up at the boy.

I need bandages.  He tried to make his voice firm and reassuring, but it
came out as a raven's croak, and the boy started and tore his eyes from
the ravaged limb.

Lothar dusted the suppurating wounds with carbolic crystals, all that he
had, and bound them up with strips of blanket.  They had used up all
their extra clothing for bandages.

How far is she behind us, Henny?  he asked, as he knotted the bandage.

We have won time, Hendrick guessed.  They must be saving their horses.
But look at ours.  of the animals had lain down at the edge of the
water, One the sign of capitulation.

Five or six hours behind us.  And it was seventy miles to the river,
with no guarantee that the pursuers would honour the border and not
pursue them across.  Lothar did not have to voice those doubts; they
were all too aware of them.

Manfred, he whispered.  Bring the diamonds.  The boy placed the canvas
haversack beside Lothar and he unpacked it carefully.

There were twenty-eight of the small brown cartridge paper packages with
their red wax seals.  Lothar separated them into four piles, seven
packages in each.

Equal shares, he said.  We cannot value each package, so we will cut
them four ways and give the youngest first pick.  He looked across at
Hendrick.  Agreed?  Swart Hendrick understood that the sharing of the
booty was at last an admission that not all of them were going to reach
the river.  Hendrick lowered his eyes from Lothar's face.  He and this
golden-haired, white-skinned devil had been together since the far-off
time of their youth.  He had never considered what held them together.
He felt a deep, unwavering antagonism and distrust towards all white men
except this one.  They had dared so much, seen so much, shared so much.
He did not think of it as love or as friendship.  Yet the thought of the
parting which lay just ahead filled him with a devastating despair, as
though a little death awaited him.

Agreed, he said, in that deep resonant tone, like the chime of a bass
bell, and he looked up at the white boy.  The man and the boy were one
unit in Hendrick's mind.  What he felt for the father was also for the
son.

Choose, Manie, he ordered.

don't know.  Manfred put both hands behind his back, reluctant to touch
one of the piles.

Do it, snapped his father, and obediently he reached out and touched the
nearest pile.

Pick them up, Lothar ordered, and then looked at the black youth.

Choose, Klein Boy.  There were two piles left, and Lothar grinned
through cracked lips.  How old are you, Henny?  As old as the burned
mountain, as young as the first flower of spring, the Ovambo said, and
they both laughed.

If I had a diamond for every time we have laughed together, Hendrick
thought, I would be the richest man in the world.  And it required an
effort to keep the smile on his face.  You must be younger than I am, he
spoke aloud.

For I have always had to care for you like a nursemaid.

Choose!  Lothar shoved his chosen pile across to Manfred.  Put it in the
haversack, he told him, and Manfred packed their s hare of the booty
into the canvas bag and strapped it closed while the two black men
filled the pockets of their tunics with their packages.

Now fill the water bottles.  It's only seventy miles to the river,
Lothar said.

When they were ready to leave Hendrick stooped to help Lothar to his
feet, but he struck Hendrick's hands away irritably and used the trunk
of the acacia to push himself upright.

One of the horses could not rise and they left it lying at the water's
edge.  Another broke down within the first mile, but the other two
limped on gamely.  Neither of them could any longer support the full
weight of a man, but one carried the water bottles and Lothar used the
other as a crutch.  He staggered along beside it with his good arm
draped over its neck.

The other three men took it in turns to lead the horses, and they
trudged on determinedly northwards.  Sometimes Lothar laughed without
reason and sang in a strong, clear voice, carrying the tune so
beautifully that Manfred felt a buoyant rush of relief.  But then the
singing quavered and his voice broke and cracked.  He shouted and raved
and pleaded with the fever phantoms that crowded about him, and Manfred
ran back to hi-in and circled his waist with a helping arm and Lothar
quieted down.

,YOU are a good boy, Manie, he whispered.  You've always been a good
boy.  We are going to have a wonderful life from now on.  A fine school
for you, you will become a young gentleman, we'll go to Berlin together,
the opera,, Oh!  Papa, don't talk.  Save your strength, Papa.  And
Lothar subsided once more into an oppressive silence, toiling on
mechanically with his boots dragging and scuffing, and only the
labouring horse and his son's strong young arm preventing him from
crashing face forward onto the hot Kalahari sands.

Far ahead of them the first of the granite kopjes showed above the
sparse heat-blighted forest.  It was round as a pearl and the smooth
rock glowed silver grey in the sunlight.

Centaine stopped her horse on the crest of the rise and looked down into
the basin of land beyond.  She recognized the tall trees from the top
branches of which, many years before, she had glimpsed her first wild
African elephant, and a little of the childlike wonder of that moment
had remained with her over all that time.  Then she saw the water, and
all else was forgotten.  It was not easy to control the horses once they
had smelled it.  She had heard of desert travellers dying of thirst at
the water-hole when they allowed their cattle and horses to rush ahead
and trample the water into thick mud.  But Blaine and his sergeant were
experienced men and controlled them firmly.

As soon as the horses had been watered and picketed, Centaine pulled off
her boots and waded fully dressed into the pool, ducking under the
surface to soak her clothing and her hair and revelling at the chill of
the muddy water.

At the far end of the pool Blaine had stripped to his breeches and was
knee-deep, scooping water over his head.

Centaine the studied him surreptitiously.  It was the first time she had
seen him bare-chested, and his body hair was thick and dark and
springing, sparkling with water droplets.  There was a small black mole
below the nipple of his right breast, which for no good reason intrigued
her, otherwise his body was without blemish; his skin had the sheen of
polished marble, like the Michaelangelo statue of David, and his muscles
were flat and hard-looking.  The sun had stained a dark brown V below
his throat and his arms were brown up to the distinct lines that his
shirtsleeves had left; beyond that his skin was the pale ivory that she
found so attractive that she had to look away from it.

As she came up to him he hurriedly pulled on his shirt again, and the
water soaked through it in darker patches.

His modesty made her smile.

De La Rey found no spare horses here, she told him, and he looked
puzzled.

Are you sure?  Kwi says that there were two men waiting here with many
horses but that they left many days ago.  He cannot count beyond the ten
fingers on his hand, it was longer than that.  Yes, I am sure Lothar De
La Rey found no fresh horses., Blaine smoothed his wet hair straight
back with both hands.  Then my guess is that something has gone wrong
with his plans.  He would never have used up his horses like that unless
he was expecting to find remounts.  Kwi says they have gone ahead on
foot.  They are leading their remaining horses, and the horses are
obviously too weak to carry a man.  She broke off as Kwi called shrilly
from the edge of the forest and she and Blaine hurried over to join him.

They are desperate, Blaine said, as they saw the pile of

abandoned equipment beneath the acacia tree.  Saddles and

canned food, blankets and billy cans.  He turned over the pile with his
feet.  They've even dumped ammunition, and, yes, by God, the last of
those damned horse irons.  The small wooden case lay on its side with
the last few pounds of the vicious iron spikes spilling from it. 'They
have stripped down, and they are making one last desperate run to reach
the river.  Look here, Blaine, Centaine called to him, and he went to
her and examined the small pile of soiled bandages that lay at her feet.

His condition is worsening, Centaine murmured, but strangely there was
no gloating in her voice, no triumph in her eyes.  I think he is a dying
man, Blaine.  Unaccountably he felt the need to commiserate with her, to
console her.  If we can get him to a doctor,

he broke off, the impulse was ludicrous.  They were hunting a vicious
criminal who, Blaine knew, would not hesitate to shoot him down at the
first opportunity.

Sergeant Hansmeyer, he called harshly.  See the men fed and the horses
watered again before we leave in an hour.  He turned back to Centaine
and saw with relief that she had rallied.

An hour is not enough, let's see we use every minute of it., They sat
together in the shade.  Neither of them had eaten much; the heat and
their fatigue had destroyed their appetite.

Blaine took a cheroot from his leather case and then changed his mind.
He slipped it back into the case and dropped the case into the pocket of
his tunic.

When I first met you I thought that you were brilliant and adamant and
beautiful as one of your own diamonds, he said.

And now?  she asked.

I have seen you weep for maimed horses, and I have sensed in you a deep
compassion for a man who has done you cruel injury, he replied. 'When we
left Kalkrand I was in love with you.  I suppose I was in love with you
from the first hour I met you.  I couldn't help that, but now I also
like you and respect you.  Is that a different thing from love?  It is a
very different thing from being in love, he affirmed, and they were
silent for a while before she tried to explain.

Blaine, I have been alone for a long time with a small child to protect
and to plan for.  When I came to this land as a girl, I served a hard,
unrelenting apprenticeship in this desert.  I learned that there was
nobody I could rely upon but myself, no way to survive but through my
own strength and determination.  That hasn't altered.  I still have
nobody but myself on whom I can rely.  Isn't that so, Blaine?  I wish it
were not.  He did not attempt to avoid her gaze but looked back at her
candidly.  I wish,, He broke off and she finished the statement for him.
But, you have Isabella and your girls.  He nodded.  Yes, they cannot
fend for themselves.  And I can!, isn't that right, Blaine?  Don't be
bitter with me, please.  I did not seek this.  I have never made you any
promises.  I'm sorry.  She was immediately contrite.  You are right.

You have never promised me anything., She glanced at her watch. 'Our
little hour is up, she said, and rose in a single lithe movement to her
feet.

I shall just have to go on being strong and hard, she said.

But never tax me with it again, please Blaine.  Never again. They had
been forced to abandon five of their own horses since leaving the
water-hole of the elephant, and Blaine was alternating between walking
and riding in an attempt to save the remaining animals.  They rode for
half an hour and then dismounted and led for the next half hour.

Only the Bushmen were unaffected by the thirst and fatigue and heat, and
they chafed at the halting and torturous pace they were forced to adopt.

The only consolation is that De La Rey is doing even worse than we are.
From the spoor they could read that the fugitives, reduced to a single
horse between them, were making even slower progress.  And it's still
thirty miles or more to the river.  Blaine checked his watch.  Time to
walk again, I'm afraid.  Centaine groaned softly as she swung down from
the saddle.  She ached in every muscle, and the tendons of her
hamstrings and calves felt like twisted wire strands.

They trudged forward and every pace required a conscious effort.
Centaine's tongue filled her mouth, thick and leathery, and the mucous
membrane of her throat and nostrils was swollen and painful so that it
was difficult to breathe.  She tried to collect her saliva and hold it
in her mouth, but it was gummy and sour, serving only to make her thirst
more poignant.

She had forgotten what it was like to be truly thirsty, and the soft
sloshing sound of the water bottles on the saddle of the horse she was
leading became a torment, She could think of nothing but when they would
next be allowed to drink.  She kept glancing at her wrist-watch,
convincing herself that it had stopped, that she had forgotten to wind
it, that at any moment Blaine would lift his arm to halt the column and
they could unscrew the stoppers on the water bottles.

Nobody spoke from choice.  All orders were terse and monosyllabic, every
word an effort.

I won't be the first to give in, Centaine decided grimly, and then she
was alarmed that the thought had even occurred to her. 'Nobody will give
in.  We have to catch them before the river and the river is not far
ahead.  She found she was focusing only on the earth at her feet,
interest in her surroundings, and she knew that was losing a dangerous
sign, the first small surrender.  She forced herself to look up.  Blaine
was ahead of her.  She had fallen back in those few paces, and she made
a huge effort and dragged her horse forward until she was side by side
with him again.

Immediately she felt heartened, she had won another victory over her
body's frailty.

Blaine smiled at her, but she saw that it had cost him an

effort also.  Those kopjes are not marked on the map, he said.

She had not noticed them, but now she looked up and a mile ahead saw
their smooth bald granite heads raised above the forest.  She had never
been this far north; it was new territory for her.

I don't think this country has ever been surveyed, she whispered, and
then cleared her throat and spoke more clearly.  Only the river itself
has been mapped., We will drink when we reach the foot of the nearest
hill, he promised her.

A carrot for the donkey, she murmured, and he grinned.

Think about the river.  That is a garden full of carrots.  And they
relapsed into silence; the Bushmen led them directly towards the hills.
At the base of the granite cone they found the last of Lothar De La
Rey's horses.

It lay on its side, but it lifted its head as they walked up to it.
Blaine's mare whickered softly, and the downed animal tried to reply but
the effort was too much.  It dropped its head flat against the earth and
its short hampered breathing raised tiny wisps of dust that swirled
around its nostrils.

The Bushmen circled the dying animal and then conferred excitedly.

Kwi ran a short way towards the grey side of the kopje and looked up.

They all followed his example, staring up the steep rounded expanse of
granite.  It was two or three hundred feet high.  The surface was not as
smooth as it had appeared at a distance.  There were deep cracks, some
lateral, others running vertically from the foot to the summit, and the
granite was flaking away in the onion peel effect caused by heat
expansion and contraction.  This left small sharp-edged steps which
would give footholds and make it possible for a man to reach the top,
though it would be an exposed and potentially dangerous climb.

On the summit a cluster of perfectly round boulders, each the size of a
large dwelling house, formed a symmetrical crown.  The whole was one of
those natural compositions so artful and contrived that it seemed to
have been conceived and executed by human engineers. Centaine was
strongly reminded of the dolmens which she had visited as a child in
France, or of one of those ancient Mayan temples in the South American
jungles which she had seen illustrated.

Blaine had left her side and led his mount towards the foot of the
granite cliff, and something on the crest of the kopje caught Centaine's
eye.  It was a flicker of movement in the shadow beneath one of the
crowning boulders on the summit, and she shouted a warning.

Blaine, be careful!  On the top, He was standing at his horse's head
with the reins over his shoulder, staring upwards.  But before he could
respond to her warning there was a thud as though a sack of wheat had
been dropped on a stone floor.  Centaine did not recognize the sound as
a high-velocity bullet striking living flesh until Blaine's horse
staggered, its front legs collapsed and it dropped heavily, dragging
Blaine with it.

Centaine was stunned until she heard the whiplash crack of the Mauser
from the summit of the kopje and she realized that the bullet had
reached them before the sound.

All around her the troopers were shouting and wrestling with their
panicking horses, and Centaine spun and vaulted for the saddle of her
own mount.  With one hand on the pommel and without touching the stirrup
irons she was up, dragging the horse's head around.

Blaine, I'm coming, she screamed.  He had scrambled to his feet beside
the carcass of his horse, and she rode for him.

Grab my stirrup, she called, and the Mausers up on the hill were
cracking bullets amongst them.  She saw Sergeant Hansmeyer's horse shot
dead beneath him and he was pitched headlong from the saddle.

Blaine ran to meet her and seized her dangling stirrup.  She turned the
horse and heeled him into a full gallop, pumping the reins, heading back
for the sparse cover of the mopani two hundred yards behind them.

Blaine was swinging on the stirrup leather, his feet skimming the
ground, making giant strides as he kept level with her.

Are you all right?  she yelled.

Keep going!  His voice strained at the effort and she looked back under
her arm.  The gunfire still crackled and snapped around them. One of the
troopers turned back to help Sergeant Hansmeyer, but as he reached him a
bullet hit his horse in the head and it crashed over and flung the
trooper sprawling to earth.

They are picking off the horses!  Centaine cried, as she realized that
hers was the only animal still unscathed.  All the others were down,
killed with a single shot in the head for each of them.  It was superb
marksmanship, for the men on the summit were firing downhill at a range
of one hundred and fifty paces or more.

Ahead of her Centaine saw a shallow ravine that she had not noticed
before.  There was a tangle of fallen dead mopani branches upon the
nearest bank, a natural palisade, and she rode for it, forcing her
winded horse down the bank in a scrambling leap and then immediately
springing down and seizing his head to control him.

Blaine had been dragged off his feet and had rolled down the bank, but
he pulled himself up.  I walked into that ambush like a greenhorn, he
snarled, angry at himself.  Too bloody tired to think straight.  He
jerked the rifle out of the scabbard on Centaine's saddle and climbed
quickly to the lip of the bank.

Ahead of him the dead horses lay below the steep smooth slope of the
kopje, and Sergeant Hansmeyer and his troopers were dodging and jinking
as they sprinted back for the cover of the ravine.  Mauser-fire
crackled, kicking up spouts of yellow dust about their feet, and they
winced and ducked at the implosion of air in their eardrums as passing
shot whipped about their heads.

Magically the Bushmen had disappeared, like little brown leprechauns, at
the first shot.  Centaine knew they would not see them again.  Already
they were on their way back to join their clan at O'chee Pan.

Blaine pushed up the rear sight of the Lee Enfield to four hundred yards
and aimed for the crest of the kopje, where a feather of drifting blue
gun-smoke betrayed the hi gunmen.  He fired as fast as he could work the
bolt, spraying bullets to cover the fleeing troopers, watching white
chips of granite burst from the skyline of the kopje as the raking fire
withered away.  He snatched a clip of ammunition from his bandolier and
pressed the brass cartridges into the open breech of the hot rifle,
slammed the bolt shut and flung the weapon to his shoulder, and poured
fire up at the marksmen on the crest of the kopje.

one by one Hansmeyer and his troopers reached the ravine and tumbled
into it, sweating and panting wildly.  With grim satisfaction Blaine
noticed that each of them had carried his rifle with him, and they wore
their bandoliers strapped across their chests, seventy-five rounds a
man.

They shot the horses in the head but never touched a man. Hansmeyer's
breathing whistled in his throat as he struggled with the words.

They never fired a shot near me, Centaine blurted.  Lothar must have
taken great care not to endanger her.  She realized with a tremor just
how easily he could have put a bullet into the back of her skull as she
fled.

Blaine was reloading the Lee Enfield, but he looked up and smiled
bumourlessly.  The fellow is no idiot.  He knows that he has shot his
bolt, and he is not looking to add murder to the long list of the
charges against him.  He looked at Hansmeyer.  How many men on the
kopje?  he demanded.

I don't know, Hansmeyer answered.  But there is more than one. The rate
of fire was too much for one man, and I heard shots overlapping.  All
right, let's find out how many there are.  Blaine beckoned Centaine and
Hansmeyer up beside him and explained.

Centaine took his binoculars and moved down the ravine until she was
well out on the flank and below a dense tuft of grass which grew on the
lip of the ravine.  She used the tuft as a screen and raised her head
until she could make out the summit of the kopje.  She cused the
binoculars and called Ready!  Blaine had his helmet on the ramrod of his
rifle, and he lifted it and Hansmeyer fired two shots into the air to
draw the attention of the marksmen on the kopje.

Almost immediately the answering fusillade crackled from the hilltop.
More than one shot fired simultaneously, and dust kicked off the lip of
the ravine inches from the khaki helmet while ricochet howled away over
the mopani trees.

Two or three, Hansmeyer called.

Three, Centaine confirmed, lowering the binoculars as she ducked down. I
saw three heads., Good.  Blaine nodded.  We've got them then, just a
matter of time.  Blaine.  Centaine loosened the strap of her water
bottle from the saddle.  That's all we have got., She shook the bottle,
and it was less than a quarter full.  They all stared at it, and
involuntarily Blaine licked his lips.

We will be able to recover the other bottles, just as soon as it's dark,
he assured them, and then briskly, Sergeant, take two troopers with you,
try and work your way around the other side of the kopje.  Make sure
nobody leaves by the back door.  Lothar De La Rey sat propped against
one of the huge round granite boulders at the top of the kopje.  He sat
in the shade, with the Mauser across his lap.  He was bare-headed and
his long golden hair blew softly across his forehead.

He stared out towards the south, across the plain and the scattered
mopani forest, in the direction from which the relentless pursuit would
come.  The climb up the sheer granite wall had taxed him severely and he
was not yet recovered from it.

Leave me one water bottle, he ordered and Hendrick placed it beside him.

I have filled it from those, Hendrick indicated the pile of discarded,
empty water bottles.  And we have a full bottle to see us as far as the
river.  Good.  Lothar nodded and checked the other equipment laid out
beside him on the granite slab.

that was There were four hand grenades, the old potato masher type with
a wooden handle.  They had lain in the cache with the horse irons and
other equipment for almost twenty years and he could not rely upon them.

Klein Boy had left his rifle and his bandolier of Mauser ammunition with
the grenades.  So Lothar had two rifles and 150 rounds - more than
enough, if the grenades worked.  If they didn't it wouldn't matter
anyway.

All right, Lothar said quietly.  I have everything I need.

You can go.  Hendrick turned his cannonball of a head to peer into the
south.  They were on a grandstand, high above the world, and the sweep
of their horizon was twenty miles or more, but there was as yet no sign
of the pursuit.

Hendrick started to rise to his feet, and then paused.  He squinted into
the heat haze and the glare.  Dust!  he said.  It was still five miles
away, a pale haze above the trees.

Yes.  Lothar had seen it minutes before.  It could be a herd of zebra,
or a willy willy, but I wouldn't bet my share of the loot on it.

Move out now.  Hendrick did not obey immediately.  He stared into the
white man's sapphire-yellow eyes.

Hendrick had not argued nor protested when Lothar had explained what
they must do.  It was right, it was logical.

They had always left their wounded, often with just a pistol at hand,
for when the pain or the hyenas closed in.  And yet, this time Hendrick
felt the need to say something, but there were no words that could match
the enormity of the moment.  He knew he was leaving a part of his own
LIFE upon this sun-blasted rock.

I will look after the boy, he said simply, and Lothar nodded.

I want to talk to Manie.  He licked his dry, cracked lips and shivered
briefly with the heat of the poison in his blood.

Wait for him at the bottom.  It will take only a minute.  Come. Hendrick
jerked his head, and Klein Boy stood up beside him.  Together they moved
with the swiftness of hunting panthers to the cliff, and Klein Boy
slipped over the edge.  Hendrick paused and looked back.  He raised his
right hand.

Stay in peace, he said simply.

Go in peace, old friend, Lothar murmured.  He had never called him
friend before and Hendrick flinched at the word.

Then he turned his head so Lothar could not see his eyes, and a moment
later he was gone.

Lothar stared after him for long seconds, then shook himself lightly,
driving back the self-pity and the sickly sentiment and the fever mists
which threatened to close in and unman him completely.

Manfred, he said, and the boy started.  He had been sitting as close as
he dared to his father, watching his face, hanging on every word, every
gesture he made.

Pa, he whispered.  I don't want to go.  I don't want to leave you.  I
don't want to be without you., Lothar made an impatient gesture,
hardening his features to hide this softness in him.  You will do as I
tell you.  Pa, I You have never let me down before, Manie.  I have been
proud of you.  Don't spoil it for me now.  Don't let me find out that my
son is a coward I'm not a coward!  Then you will do what you have to do,
he said harshly, and before Manfred could protest again he ordered,
Bring me the haversack.  Lothar placed the bag between his feet and with
his good hand unbuckled the flap.  He took one of the packages from it
and tore open the heavy brown paper with his teeth.  He spilled the
stones into a small pile on the granite beside him and then spread them.
He picked out ten of the biggest and whitest gems.

Take off your jacket, he ordered, and when Manfred handed the garment to
him Lothar pierced a tiny hole in the lining with his clasp knife.

These stones will be worth thousands of pounds.  Enough to see you full
grown and educated, he said, as he stuffed them one at a time into the
lining of the jacket with his forefinger.

But these others, there are too many, too heavy, too bulky to hide.
Dangerous for you to carry them with you, a death warrant.  He pushed
himself to his feet with an effort.

Come!  He led Manfred amongst the cluster of huge boulders, bracing
himself against the rock to keep himself from falling while Manfred
supported him from the other side.

Here!  He grunted and lowered himself to his knees, Manfred squatting
down beside him.  At their feet the granite cap was cracked through as
though split with a chisel.  At the top the crack was only as wide as
two hand-spans, but it was deep, they could not see the bottom of it
though they peered down thirty feet or more.  The crack narrowed
gradually as it descended and the depths of it were lost in shadow.

Lothar dangled the haversack of diamonds over the aperture.  Mark this
place well, he whispered.  Look back often when you go northwards so
that you will remember this hill.  The stones will be waiting for you
when you need them.  Lothar opened his fingers and the haversack dropped
into the crack.  They heard the canvas scraping against the sides of the
granite cleft as it fell, and then silence as it jammed deep down in the
narrow throat of the crack.

Side by side they peered down, and they could just make out the lighter
colour and the contrasting texture of the canvas thirty feet down, but
it would escape even the concentrated scrutiny of anyone who did not
know exactly where to look for it.

That is my legacy to you, Manie, Lothar whispered, and crawled back from
the aperture.  All right, Hendrick is waiting for you.  It is time for
you to go.  Go quickly now.  He wanted to embrace his son for the last
time, to kiss his eyes and his lips and press him to his heart, but he
knew it would undo them both.  If they clung to each other now, they
could never bring themselves to part.

Go!  he ordered, and Manfred sobbed and flung himself at his father.

I want to stay with you, he cried.

Lothar caught his wrist and held him at arm's length.

Do you want me to be ashamed?  he snarled.  Is that how you want me to
remember you, snivelling like a girl?  Pa, don't send me away, please.
Let me stay.  Lothar drew back, released his grip on Manfred's wrist and
immediately whipped his open palm across his face and then swung back
with his knuckles.  The double slap knocked Manfred onto his haunches,
leaving livid red blotches on his pale cheeks, and a tiny serpent of
bright blood crawled from his nostril down over his upper lip.  He
stared at Lothar with shocked and incredulous eyes.

Get out of here, Lothar hissed at him, summoning all his courage and
resolve to make his voice scornful and his expression savage.  I won't
have a blubbering little ninny hanging around my neck.  Get out of here
before I take the strap to you!  Manfred scrambled to his feet and
backed away, still staring with horrified disbelief at his father.

Go on!  Get away!  Lothar's expression never wavered, and his voice was
angry and disdainful and unrelenting.  Get out of here! Manfred turned
and stumbled to the edge of the cliff.

There he turned once more and held out his hands.  Pa!

Please don't, Go, damn you.  Go!  The boy scrambled over the edge, and
the sounds of his clumsy descent dwindled into silence.

only then Lothar let his shoulders droop, and he sobbed once, then
suddenly he was weeping silently, his whole body shaking.

It's the fever, he told himself.  The fever has weakened me. But the
image of his son's face, golden and beautiful and destroyed with grief,
still filled his mind and he felt something tearing in his chest, an
unbearable physical pain.

Forgive me, my son, he whispered through his tears.  There was no other
way to save you.  Forgive me, I beg you.  Lothar must have relapsed into
unconsciousness, for he awoke with a start and could not remember where
he was or how he had got there.  Then the smell of his arm, sick and
disgusting, brought it back to him, and he crawled to the edge of the
cliff and looked out towards the south.  He saw his pursuers then for
the first time, and even at the distance of a mile or more he recognized
the two wraith-like little figures that danced ahead of the column of
horsemen.

Bushmen, he whispered.  Now he understood how they had come so swiftly.
She has put her tame Bushmen onto me.  He realized then that there had
never been any chance of throwing them off the spoor; all that time
Lothar had used in covering their sign and in anti-tracking subterfuges
had been wasted.  The Bushmen had followed them with barely a check over
the worst going and most treacherous tracking terrain.

Then he looked beyond the trackers an counted the number of men coming
against him.  Seven, he whispered, and his eyes narrowed as he tried to
pick out a smaller feminine figure amongst them, but they were
dismounted leading their horses and the intervening mopani obscured his
vision.

He transferred all his attention from the approaching horsemen to his
own preparations.  His only concern now was to delay the pursuit as long
as possible, and to convince the pursuers that all of his band were
still together here upon the summit.  Every hour he could win for them
would give Hendrick and Manie just that much more chance of escape.

It was slow and awkward working with one hand, but he jammed Klein Boy's
rifle into a niche of the granite with the muzzle pointing down towards
the plain.  He looped a strap from one of the water bottles over the
trigger and led the other end to his chosen shooting stance in the
shadows, protected by a flare of the granite ledge.

He had to pause for a minute to rest, for his vision was starring and
breaking up into patches of blackness, and his legs felt too weak to
support his weight.  He peeped over the edge and the horsemen were much
closer, on the point of emerging from the mopani forest into the open
ground.  Now he recognized Centaine, slim and boyish in her
riding-breeches, and he could even make out the bright yellow speck of
the scarf around her throat.

Despite the fever heat and the darkness in his head, despite his
desperate circumstances, he still found a bitter-sweet admiration for
her.  By God, she never gives up, he muttered.  She'll follow me over
the other side to the frontiers of hell.  He crawled to the pile of
discarded water bottles and dragging them after him, arranged them in
three separate piles along the lip of the ledge, and he knotted the
leather straps together so that he could agitate all the piles
simultaneously with a single twitch of the strap in his hand.

Nothing else I can do, he whispered, except shoot straight.  But his
head was throbbing and his vision danced with the hot mirage of his
fever.  Thirst was an agony in his throat and his body was a furnace.

He unscrewed the stopper on the water bottle and drank, carefully
controlling himself, sipping and holding it in his mouth before
swallowing.  Immediately he felt better, and his vision firmed.  He
closed the water bottle and placed it beside him with the spare
ammunition clips.  Then he folded his jacket into a cushion on the lip
of granite in front of him and laid the Mauser on top of it.  The
pursuers had reached the foot of the kopje and were clustered about his
abandoned horse.

Lothar held up his good hand in front of his eyes with fingers extended.
There was no tremor, it was steady as the rock on which he lay and he
cuddled the butt of the Mauser in under his chin.

The horses, he reminded himself.  They can't follow Manie without
horses, and he drew a long breath, held it, and shot Blaine Malcomess
chestnut mare in the centre of the white blaze.

As the echoes of the shot still bounced from the cliffs of the
surrounding hills, Lothar flicked the bolt of the Mauser and fired
again, but this time he jerked the strap attached to the other rifle and
the report of the two shots overlapped.

The double report would deceive even an experienced soldier into
believing there was more than one man on the summit.

Strangely, in this moment of deadly endeavour, the fever had receded.
Lothar's vision was bright and clear, the sights of the Mauser starkly
outlined against each target and his gun hand steady and precise as he
swung the rifle from one horse to the next and sent each one crashing to
earth with a head shot.  Now they were all down except one: Centaine's
mount.

He picked Centaine up in the field of his gunsight.  She was galloping
back towards the mopani, lying flat over her horse's neck, her elbows
pumping, a man hanging from her stirrup, and Lothar lifted his
forefinger from the curve of the trigger.  It was an instinctive
reaction; he could not bring himself to send a bullet anywhere near her.

Instead he swung the barrel away from her.  The riders of the downed
horses, all four of them, were straggling away towards the mopani. Their
thin cries of panic carried to the summit.  They were easy marks; he
could have knocked them down with a single bullet for each, but instead
he made it a game to see how close he could come without touching one of
them.  They ducked and cavorted as the Mauser fire whipped around them.
It was comical, hilarious.

He was laughing as he worked the bolt, and suddenly he heard the wild
hysterical quality of his laughter ringing hollowly in his own skull and
he bit it off.  I'm losing my head, he thought.  Got to last it out. The
last of the running men disappeared into the forest and he found himself
shaking and sweating with reaction.

Got to be ready, he encouraged himself.  Got to think.

Can't stop now.  Can't let go.  He crawled to the second rifle and
reloaded it, then rolled back to his shooting stance in the shadow of
the summit boulders.

Now they are going to try and mark me, he guessed.

They'll draw fire and watch for- He saw the helmet being offered
invitingly above the lip of the ravine at the edge of the forest and
grinned.  That was a hoary old trick; even the red-necked pommy soldiers
had learned not to fall for it as far back as the opening years of the
Boer War.  It was almost insulting that they should try to entice him
with it now.

All right then!  he taunted them.  We'll see who foxes who?  He fired
both rifles simultaneously, and a moment later jerked the straps
attached to the piles of empty water bottles.

At that range the movement of the round felt-covered bottles would show
against the skyline just like the heads of hidden riflemen.

Now they will send men to circle the hill, he guessed, and watched for
movement amongst the trees on his flanks, the Mauser ready, blinking his
eyes rapidly to clear them.

Five hours until dark, he told himself.  Hendrick and Manie will be at
the river by dawn tomorrow.  Got to hold them until then. He saw a flash
of movement out on the right flank: men crouching and running forward in
short bursts, outflanking the kopje, and he aimed for the trunks over
their heads.

Mauser fire whiplashed and bark exploded from the mopani, leaving wet
white wounds on the standing timber.

Keep your heads down, myne heeren!  Lothar was laughing again,
hysterical, delirious cackles.

He forced himself to stop it, and immediately the image of Manie's face
appeared before him, the beautiful topaz eyes swimming with tears and
the flash of blood on his upper lip.

My son, he lamented.  Oh God, how will I live without you!  Even then be
would not accept that be was dying, but blackness filled his skull and
his head dropped forward onto the filthy pus-stained bandage that
swaddled his arm.  The stench of his own decaying flesh became part of
the delirious nightmares which continued to torment him even in
unconsciousness.

He came back to reality gradually, and he was aware that the sunlight
had mellowed and the terrible heat had passed.

There was a tiny breeze fanning the hilltop and he panted for the cooler
air, sucking it gratefully into his lungs.  Then he became aware of his
thirst and his hand shook as he reached for the water bottle; it
required an enormous effort to remove the stopper and lift it to his
lips.  One gulp and the bottle slipped from his grip and precious water
splashed the front of his shirt and glugged from the bottle, pooling on
the rock, evaporating almost immediately.  He had lost fully a pint
before he could retrieve the bottle and the loss made him want to weep.

Carefully he screwed the stopper closed, then lifted his head and
listened.

There were men on the hill.  He heard the distinct crunch of a
steel-shod boot biting into a granite foothold and he reached for one of
the potato masher grenades.  With the Mauser over his shoulder he
crawled back from the edge and used the rock to pull himself to his
feet.  He could not stand unassisted, and he had to lean his way around
the boulder.

He crept forward cautiously with the grenade ready.

The summit was clear; they must still be climbing the cliff.  He held
his breath and listened with all his being.  He heard it again, close at
hand, the scrape and slide of cloth against granite and a sharp
involuntary inhalation of breath, a gasp of effort as somebody missed
and then retrieved a foothold just below the summit.

They are coming up from behind, he told himself as though explaining to
a backward child.  Every thought required an effort. 'Seven-second delay
on the fuse of the grenade.  He stared down at the clumsy weapon that he
held by its wooden handle.  Too long.  They are very close.  He lifted
the grenade and tried to pull the firing-pin. It had corroded and was
firmly stuck.  He grunted and heaved at it and the pin came away.  He
heard the primer click and he began to count.

A thousand and one, a thousand and two, And at the fifth second he
stooped and rolled the grenade over the edge.

Out of sight, but close by, someone shouted an urgent warning.

Christ!  It's a grenade!  And Lothar laughed wildly.

Eat it, you jackals of the English!  He heard them sliding and slipping
as they tried to escape and he braced himself for the explosion, but
instead he heard only the clatter and rattle of the grenade as it
bounced and dropped down the slope.

Misfire!  He stopped laughing.  job damn it to hell.  Then abruptly, but
belatedly, the grenade exploded, far down the cliff.  A crash of sound
followed by the rattle and whine of shrapnel on the rock, and a man
cried out.

Lothar fell to his knees and crawled to the edge.  He looked over.

There were three khaki-uniformed men on the cliff, sliding and
scrambling downwards.  He propped the Mauser on the lip and fired
rapidly.  His bullets left lead smears on the rock close beside the
terrified troopers.  They dropped the last few feet and started back
towards the trees.  One of them was hurt, hit by shrapnel; his
companions supported him on each side and dragged him away.

Lothar lay exhausted by the effort for almost an hour before he could
drag himself back to the south side of the summit.  He looked down at
the dead horses lying in the sun.

Already their bellies were swelling, but the water bottles were still
strapped to their saddles.  The water is the magnet, he whispered.  By
now they will be really thirsty.

They will come for the water next.  At first he thought the darkness was
only in his mind again, but when he rolled his head and looked into the
west he saw the last orange flash of the sunset in the sky.  Before his
eyes it faded and the sudden African night was upon them.

He lay and listened for them to try to reach the water, and he wondered
as he had so often before at the mystic sounds of the African night, the
gentle muted orchestra of insect and bird, the piping of the hunting
bats flitting around the dome of rock and out on the plain the plaintive
yip of jackal and the occasional outlandish grunting bark of the
nocturnal honey badger.  Lothar had to try to discount these
distractions and listen for manmade sounds in the darkness directly
below the cliff.

It was only the clink of a stirrup iron that alerted him, and he tossed
the grenade with a full swing of his arm out over the abyss. The heavy
crump of the explosion blew a puff of air into his face, and by the
sudden flare of flame he saw far below the dark figures standing over
the dead horse.

He made out two of them, though he could not be certain there were not
others, and he tossed the second grenade.

In the brief burst of orange light he saw them racing back towards the
trees; they ran so lightly that they could not have been burdened by
water bottles.

Sweat it out, he taunted them, but he had only the one remaining
grenade.  He held it to his chest as though it were some rare treasure.

Must be ready when they come again.

Can't let them get the water.  He was talking aloud, and he knew it was
a sign of his delirium.  Every time he felt the swimming dizziness he
lifted his head and tried to focus on the stars.

Got to hold out, he told himself seriously.  If I can only keep them
here until noon tomorrow.  He tried to make the calculations of time and
distance but it was too much for him.  Must be eight hours since
Hendrick and Manie left.

They will keep going all night.  They haven't got me to hold them back.
They can make the river before dawn.  If only I can hold them another
eight hours they will get clear away But the weariness and the fever
overwhelmed him and he cradled his forehead in the curve of his elbow.

Lothar!  It was his imagination, he knew that, but then his name was
called again.  Lothar!  And he lifted his head and shivered with the
cold of the night and the memories that her voice summoned up.

He opened his mouth and then closed it.  He would not reply, would give
nothing away.  But he listened avidly for Centaine Courtney to call
again.

Lothar, we have a wounded man.  He judged that she was at the edge of
the forest.  He could imagine her, determined and brave, that small firm
chin lifted, those dark eyes.

Why do I still love you?  he whispered.

We must have water for him.  Strange how clearly her voice carried.  He
could pick out the inflection of her French accent and somehow he found
that touching.  It brought tears to his eyes.

Lothar!  I am coming out to fetch the water., Her voice was closer,
stronger, clearly she had left the shelter of the trees.

I'm alone, Lothar.  She must be halfway across the open ground.

Go back!  He tried to shout, but it was a mumble.  I warned you.

I have to do it.  He fumbled for the grenade.

Can't let you take the water, for Manie's sake.  I have to do it.  He
hooked his finger through the firing ring of the grenade.

I have reached the first horse, she called.  I am taking the bottle.
just one bottle, Lothar., She was in his power.  She was standing at the
foot of the cliff.  It wouldn't need a long throw.  All he had to do was
roll the grenade over the edge and it would fly out like a toboggan
along the curve of the cliff and land at her feet.

He imagined the flash of the explosion, that sweet flesh that had
cradled his, and harboured his son, torn and rent by razor-edged
shrapnel.  He thought how much he hated her, and realized that he loved
her as much, and the tears in his eyes blinded him.

I'm going back now, Lothar.  I have one bottle, she called, and he heard
in her voice gratitude and an acknowledgement of the bond between them
that no deed, no passage of time could sever.  She spoke again, dropping
her voice so it reached him as a faint whisper.

May God forgive you, Lothar De La Rey.  And then no more.

Those gentle words wounded him as deeply as any he had ever heard from
her.  There was a finality to them that he found unbearable, and he
dropped his head onto his arm to smother the cry of despair which rose
in his throat, and the darkness rustled in his head like the wings of a
black vulture as he felt himself falling, falling, falling.

This one is dead, Blaine Malcomess said quietly, standing over the
prostrate figure.  They had climbed the cliff at two places in the
darkness; then in the dawn they had carried the summit in a concerted
rush only to find it undefended.

Where are the others?  Sergeant Hansmeyer hurried out of the shadowy
cluster of boulders.  There is no one else on the hill, sir. They must
have got clean away.  Blaine!  Centaine called urgently. 'Where are you?
What is happening?  He had insisted that she remain at the foot of the
kopje until they had captured the summit.  He had not yet signalled her
to come up, but here she was, only a minute behind their attack.

Over here, he snapped.  And then, as she ran towards him, You disobeyed
an order, madam.  She ignored the accusation.  Where are they?  She
broke off as she saw the body.  Oh God, it's Lothar.  She went down
beside him.

So this is De La Rey.  Well, he's dead, I'm afraid, Blaine told her.

Where are the others?  Centaine looked up at him anxiously.  She had
been both dreading and anticipating finding Lothar's bastard; she still
tried to avoid using the boy's name, even to herself.

Not here.  Blaine shook his head.  Given us the slip.  De La Rey fooled
us and put up a good rear guard delay.  They have got clear away.

They'll be across the river by now.  Manfred.  Centaine capitulated and
thought of him by name.  Manfred, my son.  And her disappointment and
sense of loss was so strong that it shocked her.  She had wanted him to
be there.  To see him at last.  She looked down at his father, and other
emotions, long buried and suppressed, rose in her.

Lothar lay with his face cradled in the crook of his elbow.

The other arm, bound up in strips of stained blanket, was outflung.  She
touched his neck below the ear, feeling for the carotid artery, and
exclaimed immediately she felt the fever heat of his skin.

He's still alive.  Are you sure?  Blaine squatted beside her. Between
them they rolled Lothar onto his back, and they saw the grenade lying
under him.

You were right, Blaine said softly.  He did have another grenade.  He
could have killed you last night., Centaine shivered as she stared down
at Lothar's face.  He was no longer beautiful and golden and brave.  The
fever had ruined him, his features had collapsed like those of a corpse
and he was shrunken and grey.

He is badly dehydrated, she said.  Is there water left in that bottle?
While Blaine dribbled water into his mouth, Centaine unwrapped the
festering rags from his arm.

Blood poisoning.  She recognized the livid lines beneath the skin and
the stench of his rotting flesh.  That arm will have to come off. Though
her voice was steady and businesslike, she was appalled at the damage
she had wrought.  It seemed impossible that a single bite could have
caused that.

Her teeth were one of her good features and she was proud of them,
always kept them clean and white and cared for.

That arm looked as though it had been savaged by one of the carrion
eaters, by a hyena or a leopard.

There is a Portuguese Roman Catholic mission at Cuangar on the river,
Blaine said.  But he'll be lucky if we can get him there alive.

With all but one of the horses dead, we'll all be lucky to make it as
far as the river ourselves., He stood up.  Sergeant, send one of your
men to fetch the first-aid kit and then have the rest of them search
every inch of this hilltop.  A million pounds worth of diamonds are
missing.  Hansmeyer saluted and hurried away, rapping out orders at his
troopers.

Blaine sank down beside Centaine.  While we are waiting for the medical
kit, I suppose we had better search his clothing and equipment in the
off-chance that he kept any of the stolen diamonds with him. 'It's an
off-chance all right, Centaine agreed with bitter resignation.

The diamonds are almost certainly with his son and that big black Ovambo
ruffian of his.  And without our Bushmen trackers, She shrugged.

Blaine spread Lothar's dusty stained tunic on the rock and began
examining the seams, while Centaine bathed Lothar's injured arm and then
bound it up with clean white bandages from the medical kit.

Nothing, sir.  Hansmeyer reported back.  We've gone over every inch

of this rock, every nook and cranny.  Very well, Sergeant.  Now we have
to get this beggar off the kopje without letting him fall and break his
neck.  Not that he doesn't deserve it.  Blaine grinned.  He does deserve
it.  But we don't want to do the hangman out of his five guineas, do we
now, Sergeant?  They were ready to move out within the hour.  Lothar De
La Rey was strapped into a drag litter of mopani saplings behind their
single remaining horse, and the wounded trooper, the grenade shrapnel
still in his back and shoulder, rode up in Centaine's saddle.

Centaine lingered on at the foot of the kopje after the column had
started northwards towards the river once more, and Blaine came back to
stand beside her.

He took her hand and she sighed and leaned lightly against his shoulder.
Oh, Blaine, for me so much has ended here in this God-forsaken
wilderness, on this sun-blasted lump of rock.  I think I can understand
how much the loss of the diamonds means.  Do you, Blaine?  I don't think
so.  I don't think even I can take it in yet. Everything has changed,
even my hatred for Lothar There is still a chance we will recover the
stones.  No, Blaine.  You and I both know there is no chance.  The
diamonds are gone.  He did not attempt to deny it, did not offer false
comfort.

I have lost it all, everything I ever worked for, for me and my son.
It's all gone.  I didn't realize, he broke off and looked down at her
with pity and deep concern.  I understood it would be a hard blow, but
everything?  Is it that bad?  Yes, Blaine, she said simply.  Everything.
Not all at once, of course, but now the whole edifice will start to
crumble and I will struggle to shore it up.  I will borrow and beg and
plead for time, but the foundation is gone from under me.

A million pounds, Blaine, it's an enormous sum of money.  I will stave
off the inevitable for a few months, a year perhaps, but it will go
faster and faster, like a house of cards, and at the end it will come
crashing down around me.  Centaine, I am not a poor man, he began.  I
could help you, I She reached up and laid her forefinger on his lips.

There is one thing I would ask from you, she whispered.

Not money, but in the days ahead, I will need some comfort.  Not often,
just when it gets very bad.  I will be there whenever you need me,
Centaine.  I promise you that.  You have only to call.  Oh, Blaine.  She
turned to him.  if only!  Yes, Centaine, if only.  And he took her in
his arms.

There was no guilt nor fear, even the terrible threat of ruin and
destitution that hung over her seemed to recede when she was in his
arms.

I wouldn't even mind being poor again, if only I had you beside me
always, she whispered, and he could not reply.

In desperation he bowed his head over her and stopped her lips with his
mouth.

The Portuguese priest doctor at Cuangar Mission took off

Lothar De La Rey's arm two inches below the elbow.  He operated by the
bright flat white light of the Petromax lantern, and Centaine stood at
his side, sweating behind the surgical mask, responding to the doctor's
requests in French, trying to prevent herself freezing in horror at the
rasping of the bone saw and the suffocating stench of chloroform and
gangrene that filled the daub and thatch hut that served as an operating
theatre.  When it was over, she slipped away to the earthpit lavatory
and vomited up her revulsion and pity.

Alone in the mission hut that had been allocated to her, under the
billowing ghostly mosquito net, she could still taste it in the back of
her throat.  The gangrene smell seemed to have impregnated her skin and
lingered in her hair.  She prayed that she might never smell it again,
nor ever be forced to live through another hour as harrowing as watching
the man she had once loved shorn of a limb, turned into a cripple before
her eyes.

The prayer was in vain, for at noon the following day the priest doctor
murmured regretfully, Desole, mais j'ai manque I'infection.  Il faut
couper encore une fois, I am sorry, but I have missed the infection.  It
is necessary to cut again.  The second time, because she now knew what
to expect, seemed even worse than the first.  She had to press her
fingernails into the palms of her hands to prevent herself fainting as
the priest took up the gleaming silver saw and cut through the exposed
bone of Lothar's humerus only inches below the great joint of the
shoulder.  For three days afterwards Lothar lay in a pale coma, seeming
already to have passed the division between life and death.

I cannot say.  The priest shrugged away her anxious plea for
reassurance.  It is up to the good Lord now.  Then on the evening of the
third day when she entered his hut, the sapphire-yellow eyes swivelled
towards her in their deep coloured sockets, and she saw recognition
flare for an instant before Lothar's eyelids dropped down over them.

However, it was two days more before the priest allowed

Blaine Malcomess to enter the hut.  Blaine cautioned Lothar and placed
him under formal arrest.

My sergeant will have complete charge of you until you are passed fit to
travel by Father Paulus.  At that time you will be brought by boat down
river to the border post at Runtu under strict guard, and from there by
road to Windhoek where you will stand your trial.  Lothar lay against
the bolster, pale and skeletal thin.  His stump, wrapped in a turban of
gauze bandage, the end stained yellow with iodine, looked like a
penguin's wing.  He stared at Blaine expressionlessly.

Now, De La Rey, you don't need me to tell you that you will be a lucky
man to escape the gallows.  But you will give yourself a fighting chance
of leniency if you tell us where you have hidden the diamonds, or what
you have done with them.  He waited for almost a minute, and it was
difficult not to be ruffled by that flat yellow stare with which Lothar
regarded him.

Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you, De La Rey?  he broke the
silence, and Lothar rolled his head away, stared out of the paneless
window of the hut down towards the riverbank.

I think you know that I am administrator of the territory.

I have power to review your sentence; my recommendation for clemency
would almost certainly be acceded to by the minister of justice.  Don't
be a fool, man.  Give up the diamonds.  They are no use to you where you
are going, and I will guarantee you your life in return.  Lothar closed
his eyes.

Very well, De La Rey.  We understand each other then.

Don't expect any mercy from me.  He called Sergeant Hansmeyer into the
hut.  Sergeant, the prisoner has no privileges, none at all.  He will be
under guard day and night, twenty-four hours a day, until you hand him
over to the appropriate authority in Windhoek.  You will be directly
responsible to me.  You understand?  Yes, sir.  Hansmeyer drew himself
to attention.

Look after him, Hansmeyer.  I want this one.  I want him badly. Blaine
strode out of the hut, down to where Centaine sat alone under the
open-sided thatched setengi on the riverbank.  He dropped into the camp
chair beside hers and fit a cheroot.  He inhaled the smoke, held it a
moment and then blew it out forcefully and angrily.

The man is intransigent, he said.  I offered him my personal

guarantee of leniency in exchange for your diamonds.

He didn't even deign to reply.  I don't have the authority to offer him
a free pardon but, believe me, if I did I wouldn't hesitate. As it is
there is nothing more I can do.  He drew on the cheroot again and glared
out across the wide green river.  I swear he will pay for what he has
done to you, pay in full measure.  Blaine.  She laid her hand lightly on
his muscular brown forearm.  Spite is too petty an emotion for a man of
your stature.  He glanced sideways and, despite his rancour, he smiled.

Don't credit me with too much nobility, madam.  I am many things, but
not a saint.  He looked boyish when he grinned like that, except that
his green eyes took on a wicked slant and his ears stuck out at the most
endearing angle.

Oh la, sir, it might be amusing to test the limits of your nobility and
sanctity, one day.  He chuckled with delight.  What a shameless but
interesting proposal.  And then he became serious again. 'Centaine, you
know that I should never have come on this expedition.

At this moment my duties are being sadly neglected, and I will certainly
have incurred the justified wrath of my superiors in Pretoria.  I must
get back to my office just as soon as I can.  I have arranged with
Father Paulus for canoes and paddlers to take us down river to the
border post at Runtu.  I hope we will be able to requisition a police
truck from there.  Hansmeyer and his troopers will stay on to guard De
La Rey and bring him in as soon as he is fit enough to travel.  Centaine
nodded.  Yes, I also have to get back and start picking up the pieces,
papering over the cracks., We can leave first light tomorrow.  Blaine, I
would like to speak to Lothar, to De La Rey, before we leave.  When he
hesitated, she went on persuasively: A few minutes alone with him,
please Blaine.  It's important to me. Centaine paused in the doorway of
the hut while her eyes adjusted to the gloom.

Lothar was sitting up, bare to the waist, a cheap trade blanket spread
over his legs.  His body was thin and pale; the infection had burned the
flesh off his bones and his ribs were a gaunt rack.

Sergeant Hansmeyer, will you leave us alone for a minute? Centaine
asked, and she stood aside.

As he passed her, Hansmeyer said quietly, I'll be within call, Mrs
Courtney.  In the silence that followed, Centaine and Lothar stared at
each other, and it was she who gave in and spoke first.

If you set out to ruin me, then you have succeeded, she said, and he
wriggled the stub of his missing arm, a gesture which was at once both
pathetic and obscene.

Who has ruined whom, Centaine?  he asked, and she dropped her eyes.

Won't you give me back at least a part of what you have stolen from me?
she asked.  For the sake of what we shared once long ago? He did not
reply, but instead lifted his hand and touched the ancient puckered scar
on his chest.  She winced, for it was she who had fired that shot from
the Luger pistol at the time of her disillusion and revulsion.

The boy has the diamonds, hasn't he?  she asked.  Your she was about to
say, Your bastard?  but she changed it: Your son?  Lothar remained
silent and she went on impulsively: Manfred, our son.  I never thought
I'd hear you say that.  He could not disguise the pleasure in his tone.
Will you remember he is our son, conceived in love, when you are tempted
to destroy him also?  Why should you think I would do that?  I know you,
Centaine, he said.

No.  She shook her head vehemently.  You do not know me.  If he stands
in your way, you will destroy him, he said, flatly.

Do you truly believe that?  She stared at him.  Do you really believe
that I am so ruthless, so vindictive, that I would take my revenge on my
own son?  You have never acknowledged him as that.  I have now.  You
have heard me do it more than once in the last few minutes.  Are you
promising me that you will not harm him?  I do not have to promise you,
Lothar De La Rey.  I am merely saying it.  I will not harm Manfred.  And
naturally you expect something from me in return, he demanded, leaning
forward.  He was breathing with difficulty, sweating with the effort of
fighting off his physical weakness.  His sweat had a rank and sour smell
in the gloomy confines of the hut.

would you offer me anything in return?  she asked quietly.

No, he said.  Nothing!  And he sank back against the bolster, exhausted
but defiant.  Now let me hear you withdraw your promise.  I made no
promise, she said quietly.  But, I repeat, Manfred, our son, is safe
from me.  I will never deliberately do anything to harm him.  I do not
give you the same assurance, however.  She turned and called. 'Thank
you, Sergeant, we have finished our business.  And she stooped to leave.

Centaine, he cried weakly, and he wanted to tell her, Your diamonds are
in the cleft on the summit of the hill.  But when she turned back he bit
down on the words and said only, Goodbye, Centaine.

It is finished at last.  The Okavango is one of Africa's most beautiful
rivers.  It rises in the highlands of the Angolan plateau above 4,000
feet and flows south and east, a wide deep torrent of green water that
it seems must reach the ocean, so swift and determined is its flow.
However, it is a landlocked river, debauching first into the mis-named
Okavango Swamps, a vast area of lucid lagoons and papyrus banks, studded
with islets on which graceful ivory nut palms and great wild figs stand
tall.  Beyond that the river emerges again but shrivelled and weakened
as it enters the desolation of the Kalahari Desert and disappears for
ever beneath those eternal sands.

This section of the river that Centaine and Blaine set out upon was that
above the swamps where the river was at its grandest.  Their craft was a
native mukoro, a dugout canoe fashioned from a single tree-trunk over
twenty feet long, rounded but not perfectly straight.

The owl and the pussy cat put to sea in a beautiful banana-shaped boat,
quoth Blaine, and Centaine laughed a little apprehensively until she saw
how masterfully their paddlers handled the mis-shapen craft.

They were two amiable coal-black giants of the river tribe.

They had the balance of gymnasts and their bodies were forged and
hardened to Grecian perfection by a lifetime of wielding their paddles
and their long punting poles.  They stood at the stern and bows, singing
their melodious work chant and trimming their narrow unstable craft with
a relaxed, almost instinctive ease.

Amidships Blaine and Centaine lolled on cushions of raw-hide stuffed
with the fluffy heads of the papyrus reeds.  The narrow beam forced them
to sit in tandem, with Blaine in the lead, his Lee Enfield rifle across
his lap ready to discourage the close approach of any of the numerous
hippopotami which infested the river.  The most dangerous animal in
Africa by far, he told Centaine.

What about lions and elephants and poisonous snakes?  she challenged.

The old hippo gets two humans for every one killed by all the other
species put together.  This was Centaine's first venture into these
parts.  She was a creature of the desert, unacquainted with the river or
the swamps, unfamiliar with the boundless life they supported.

Blaine, on the other hand, knew the river well.  He had first been
ordered here when serving with General Smuts' expeditionary force in
1915 and had since returned often to hunt and study the wildlife of the
region.  He seemed to recognize every animal and bird and plant, and he
had a hundred stories, both true and apocryphal, with which to amuse
her.

The mood of the river changed constantly; at places it narrowed and
raced through rock-lined gaps and the long canoe flew like a lance upon
it.  The paddlers directed it past outcrops of fanged rock upon which
the current humped up and split, and with delicate touches of the
paddles took them through the creaming whirlpools beyond and into the
next flying stretch where the surface was moulded like green Venetian
glass into standing waves by its own speed and momentum.  Centaine
whooped breathlessly, half in terror and half in exhilaration, like a
child on a roller coaster.  Then they emerged onto broad shallow
stretches, the flow broken by islands and sandbanks and bordered by wide
flood plains on which grazed herds of wild buffalo, massive indolent
seeming beasts, black as hell and crusted with dried mud, great bossed
horns drooping mournfully over their trumpet-shaped ears, standing
belly-deep in the flood plains, lifting their black drooling muzzles in
comical curiosity to watch them pass.

Oh Blaine!  What are those?  I've never seen them before. Lechwe.  This
is as far south as you will find them.  There were vast herds of these
robust water antelope with coarse wiry red coats, the rams standing as
tall as a man's chest and carrying long gracefully recurved horns.  The
hornless ewes were fluffy as children's toys.  So dense were the herds
that when they fled from the human presence they churned the water until
it sounded like the thunderous passage of a steam locomotive heard at a
distance.

On nearly every tall tree along the river's banks were posted pairs of
fish eagles, their white heads shining in the Sunlight.  They threw back
their heads, belting out their throats to chant their weird yelping call
as the mukoro glided past.

On the white sandbanks the long saurian shapes of the crocodiles were
silhouetted, ugly and evil as they lifted themselves on their stubby
deformed legs and waddled swiftly to the water's edge, then slipping
away below the surface, only the twin knobs of their scaly eyebrows
still showing.

In the shallows clusters of smooth rounded boulders, dark grey edged
with baby pink, caught Centaine's attention, but she did not recognize
them until Blaine warned: Watch them!  and the paddlers sheered off as
one of the huge boulders moved, raising a head the size of a beer keg,
gaping red, the mighty jaws lined with tusks of yellow ivory, and it
bellowed at them with the deep sardonical laughter of a demented god.

Blaine shifted the rifle slightly.  Don't be taken in by that jovial haw
haw haw, he isn't really amused, he told Centaine as he worked the bolt
and pushed a cartridge into the breech.

As he spoke the bull hippo charged at them through the shallows,
breaking the water into white foam with his elephantine bounds, blaring
his hoarse menacing laughter, his jaws gaping, clashing the long curved
yellow ivories whose razor edges could scythe the thick fibrous papyrus
stems, or crush in the frail sides of a mukoro, or cut a swimming man
into two pieces with equal ease.

p The mukoro drove forward under the long powerful thrusts of the two
oarsmen, but the hippopotamus gained on them rapidly and Blaine sprang
to his feet, balancing in the unstable craft.  He lifted the rifle to
his shoulder and fired so rapidly that the reports blended together, and
Centaine flinched at the whiplash of gunfire over her head and looked
back, expecting to see the bullets strike on the great fleshy grey head
and blood spurt from between those glassy pink-shot little eyes.  But
Blaine had aimed inches over the beast's forehead. The bristly ears
twitched and fluttered like sunbirds wings to the shock of passing shot,
and the bull broke his charge and came up short, just his head showing
above the surface, blinking rapidly with comical astonishment.

The mukoro pulled swiftly away, and the bull submerged in a huge swirl
of green water as if to cover his embarrassment at his own ineffectual
performance.

Are you all right, Centaine?  Blaine lowered the rifle.

That was a little frosty.  She tried to keep her voice level with only
partial success.

Not as bad as it seemed, sound and fury, not too much of the deadly
intent.  He smiled at her.

I'm glad you didn't kill him.  Not much point in turning the old boy
into four tons of rotting carrion and making twenty widows of his fat
wives.  Is that why he chased us, protecting his females? 'Probably, but
you can never tell with wild animals.  Perhaps one of his cows is
calving, or he has unpleasant memories of human hunters, or perhaps he
just felt plain bolshy today., His coolness in crisis had impressed her
almost as much as his humanity in sparing the threatening beast.

Only school-girls worship their heroes, she reminded herself firmly as
the canoe sped onwards, and then found herself studying the breadth of
Blaine's shoulders and the way he held his head upon them. His dark hair
was cut short down the back of his neck, and his neck was strong but not
bulled, pleasingly proportioned and smooth, only his ears were too
large, and the tips were pink where the sunlight seemed to shine through
them.  She felt an almost irresistible urge to lean forward and kiss the
soft skin just behind where they jutted out, but she controlled herself
with a giggle.

He turned and demanded with a smile, What's so funny?  A girl always
feels weak and giggly after Prince Charming saves her from a
fire-breathing dragon.  ,mythical creatures, dragons.  Don't scoff, she
chided him.  Anything is possible here, D even dragons and princes. This
is never-never land.  Santa Claus and the good fairy are waiting just
around the next bend.  ,you are just a little bit crazy, do you know
that?  Yes, I know that, she nodded.  And I think I should warn you,
it's both contagious and infectious.  Your warning comes too late.  He
shook his head sadly.

I think I've caught it already., Good, she said, and giving in to her
whim, she leaned forward and kissed that soft spot behind his ear.

He shivered theatrically.  Now look what you've done.  He turned again
and showed her the gooseflesh standing in little pimples on his
forearms.  You must promise never to do that again.  It's too dangerous.
Like you, I never make promises.  She saw the quick shadow of regret and
guilt in his eyes and cursed herself for alluding to his lack of
commitment to her and thereby spoiling the mood.

Oh, Blaine, look at those birds.  Surely they aren't real are they?  It
proves me right, this is never-never land.  She tried to retrieve the
mood.

They were drifting past a high sheer bank of red clay bright as a blood
orange that was perforated by thousands of perfectly round apertures,
and a living swirling cloud of marvellously coloured birds hung over the
bank, darting in and out of the myriad entrances to their nesting
burrows.

Carmine bee-eaters, Blaine told her, sharing her wonder at the glory of
the flashing darts of flaming pink and turquoise blue, with their long
delicately streaming tail feathers and pointed wing-tips sharp as
stilettos.  They are so unearthly, I am beginning to believe you, he
said.  Perhaps we passsed through the mirror.  we have indeed pas They
spoke little after that, but somehow their silences seemed to bring them
even closer.  They only touched once

more when Centaine laid her hand, palm open, along the

side of his neck, and for a moment he covered her hand with his own, a
gentle fleeting exchange.

Then Blaine spoke briefly to the leading oarsman.

What is it, Blaine?  she asked.

I told him to find a good place to camp for the night., Isn't it still
very early?  She glanced at the sun.

Yes.  He turned and smiled at her, almost sheepishly.  But then I'm
trying for the record trip between Cuangar and Runtu.  The record?
Slowest journey ever.  Blaine chose one of the large islands.

The white sandbar folded upon itself to form a secret lagoon, clear and
green and screened by tall waving papyrus.  While the two paddlers piled
driftwood for the fire and cut papyrus fronds to thatch night shelters
for them, Blaine picked up his rifle.

Where are you going?  Centaine asked.

See if I can get a buck for dinner.  Oh, Blaine, please don't kill
anything, not today.  Not this special day.  Aren't you tired of bully
beef?  Please, she insisted and he set his rifle aside with a smile and
a rueful shake of his head and went to make sure than the huts were
ready and the mosquito nets rigged over each separate bed. Satisfied,
Blaine dismissed the paddlers and they climbed into the mukoro.

Where are they off to?  Centaine demanded as they poled out into the
current.

I told them to camp on the mainland, Blaine answered, and they each
looked away, suddenly awkward and shy and intensely aware of their
isolation as they stared after the departing canoe.

Centaine turned and walked back to the camp.  She knelt beside her
saddle bags, which were her only luggage, and without looking up told
him, I haven't bathed since last night.  I'm going to swim in the
lagoon.  She had a bar of yellow soap in her hand.

Do you have a last message for the folks back home?  What do you mean?
This is the Okavango river, Centaine.  The crocodiles here gobble little
girls as hors d'oeuvres.  You could stand guard with the rifle Delighted
to oblige.  I, and with your eyes closed!  Rather defeats the object,
doesn't it?  He scouted the edge of the lagoon and found shallow water
below an outcropping of black water-polished rock where the bottom was
white sand and an approaching crocodile would show clearly, and he sat
on the highest pinnacle of rock with the Lee Enfield loaded and the
safety-catch off.

You are on your honour not to peek, she warned, standing on the beach
below him, and he concentrated on a flock of spur-wing geese flogging
their heavy wings as they passed across the lowering sun, but acutely
aware of the rustle of her falling clothing.

He heard the water ripple, and her little gasp and then, All right, now
you can watch for crocodiles., She was sitting on the sandy bottom, just
her head above the surface, her back towards him and her hair scraped up
and tied on top of her head.

It's heavenly, so cool and refreshing.  She smiled over her shoulder,
and he could see the gleam of her white flesh through the green water
and he thought he might not be able to bear the pain of his wanting.  He
knew that she was deliberately provoking him, but he could neither
resist her nor steel himself against her wiles.

Isabella Malcomess had been thrown from her horse almost five years
previous an since then they had not known each other as man and woman.
They had attempted it only once, but he could not bear to think about
the agony and humiliation they had both suffered at their failure.

He had a healthy lusty body and a huge appetite for living.

It had taken all his strength and determination to discipline himself to
this unnatural monastic existence.  He had succeeded at last, so that he
was now unprepared for the savage escape of all those fettered desires
and instincts.

Eyes closed again, she called gaily.  I'm going to stand and work up
some suds.  He was unable to reply; he only just contained the groan
that came up his throat, and he stared down fixedly at the rifle in his
lap.

Centaine screamed on a wild rising note of terror.  Blaine!  He was on
his feet in that instant.  Centaine was standing thigh deep, the green
water just lapping the deep cleft of her small round buttocks, the naked
swell of her hips narrowing into a tiny waist.  Her exquisitively
sculpted back and shoulders were stiff with horror.

The crocodile was coming in from deep water with slashing sweeps of its
long cocks-combed tail, a bow wave spreading back from its hideous
armoured snout in a sharp arrowhead of ripples.  The reptile was almost
as long as the mukoro, twenty feet from its nose to the tip of its
crested tail.

Run, Centaine, run!  he bellowed, and she whirled and floundered back
towards him.  But the reptile was moving as swiftly as a horse at full
gallop, the water breaking into a roiling wake behind it, and Centaine
was blocking Blaine's aim, running directly back towards him.

Blaine sprang down from the rock and waded knee-deep into the water to
meet her, his rifle held at high port across his chest.

Down!  he shouted at her.  Fall flat!  And she responded instantly,
diving forward at full length, and he fired over her back, a snap shot
for the huge reptile was almost upon her.

The bullet cracked against the armoured scales of its bideous skull. The
crocodile arched its back, exploding out of the water, drenching Blaine
and covering Centaine in a breaking wave of foam.  it stood on its
massive tail, its dwarfed forelegs clawing desperately, its creamy belly
chequered with symmetrical patterns of scales, the long angular snout
pointed to the sky, and with a bellow it collapsed over backwards.

Blaine dragged Centaine to her feet and with one arm around her backed
towards the beach, pointing the rifle like a pistol with his free hand.
The crocodile was in monstrous convulsions, its primitive brain damaged
by the bullet.  It rolled and thrashed in uncontrolled erratic circles,
snapping its jaws so that the jagged yellow teeth clashed like a steel
gate slamming in a high wind.

Blaine thrust Centaine behind him and with both hands lifted the rifle.
His bullets rang against the scaly head, tearing away chunks of flesh
and bone, and the reptile's tail fluttered and lashed weakly.  It dived
over the edge of the shallow sandbank into the dark green beyond, came
up in one last swirl and then was gone.

Centaine was shaking with terror, her teeth chattering so she could
hardly speak.  Horrible, oh what an awful monster!  and she threw
herself against his chest, and clung to him.  Oh Blaine, I was
terrified.  Her face was pressed to his chest so that her voice was
blurred.

It's all right now.  He tried to calm her.  Easy, my darling, it's all
over.  It's gone.  He propped the rifle against the rocks and enfolded
her in his arms.

He was stroking her and soothing her, at first without passion, as he
would have gentled one of his own daughters when she woke from a
nightmare screaming for him; then he became acutely aware of the
silkiness of her bare wet skin under his hands.  He could feel every
plane of her back, the smooth curves of muscle on each side of her
spine, and he could not prevent himself tracing with his fingertips the
ridge of her spine.  It felt like a string of polished beads beneath her
skin; he followed it down until it disappeared into the divide of her
small hard bottom.

She was quiet now, only breathing in little choking gasps, but at his
touch she curled her spine like a cat, inclining her pelvis towards him,
and he seized one of her buttocks in each hand and pulled her to him.
She did not resist, but her whole body thrust forward to meet his.
Blaine.  She said his name and lifted her face.

He kissed her savagely, with the anger of a man of honour who knows he
can no longer keep his vows, and they locked together breathing each
other's breath, their tongues twisting together, kneading, pressing, so
deep that they threatened to choke each other with their fervour.  She
pulled away.  Now, she stammered.  It has to be now, and he lifted her
in his arms like a child and ran with her, back through the clinging
white sand to the thatched shelter, and he fell onto his knees beside
the mattress of papyrus fronds and lowered her gently onto the blanket
that covered it.

I want to look at you, he blurted, pulling back onto his haunches, but
she squirmed up and reached for him.

Later, I can't wait, please, Blaine.  Oh God, do it now.  She was
tearing at the buttons on his shirt front, clumsy with haste, desperate
with haste.

He ripped off his sodden shirt and threw it away, and she was kissing
him again, smothering his mouth, while both of them fumbled with his
belt buckle, getting in each other's way, wildly laughing and gasping,
bumping their noses together, bruising their lips between their teeth.

Oh God, hurry, Blaine.  He tore away from her and hopped on one leg as
he tried to rid himself of his wet clinging breeches.  He looked awkward
and ungainly and he almost toppled over into the soft white sand in his
haste.  And she laughed wildly, breathlessly, he was so funny and
beautiful and ridiculous and she wanted him so, and if he took a second
longer something inside her would burst and she knew she would die.

Oh please, Blaine, quickly come to me.  Then at last he was naked as she
was and as he came over her she seized his shoulder with one hand and
fell backwards, pulling him with her, spreading her knees and lifting
them high, with the other hand groping for him, finding him and guiding
him.

Oh Blaine, you're so, oh yes, like that, I can't, I want to scream.
Scream!  He encouraged her as he plunged and rocked and thrust above
her.  There is no one to hear you.  Scream for both of us!  And she
opened her mouth wide and gave vent to all her loneliness and wanting
and incredulous joy in a rising crescendo that he joined at the end,
roaring wildly with her in the most complete and devastating moment of
her existence.

Afterwards she wept silently against his bare chest and he was puzzled
and compassionate and concerned.

I was too rough, forgive me!  I did not mean to hurt you.  She shook her
head and gulped back her tears.  No, you never hurt me, it was the most
beautiful Then why do you cry?  Because everything that is good seems so
fleeting, the more wonderful it is, the sooner it is past, while the
wretched vile times seem to last for ever.  Don't think like that, my
little one.  I don't know how I will go on living without you.  It was
hell before, but this will only make it a thousand times worse.  I don't
know where I will find the strength to walk away from you, he whispered
in agreement.  It will be the hardest thing I ever have to do in my
life.  How much longer do we have?  Another day, then we will be at
Rundu.  When I was a little girl my father gave me a brooch of amber
with an insect embedded in it.  I wish we could preserve this moment
like that, capture it eternally in the precious amber of our love. Their
parting was a gradual process, not a merciful guillotine stroke, but
over the following days a slow intrusion of events and people that
prised them apart so that they must suffer the smallest tear, each new
wrench, in all its detailed agony.

From the morning they reached the border post at Rundu and went ashore
to meet the police sergeant who was in command, they seemed constantly
to be with strangers, always on their guard so that every glance that
passed between them, every word or stolen caress, made them more
dreadfully aware of impending separation.  Only when the dusty police
truck carried them down the last hills into Windhoek was the torturous
process completed.

The world awaited them: Isabella, lovely and tragic in her wheelchair,
and her daughters bubbling with laughter, mischievous and enchanting as
elves, competing for Blaine's embraces; the superintendent of police and
the territorial secretary and droves of petty officials and reporters
and photographers; TWentyman-jones and Abe Abrahams, Sir Garry and Lady
Courtney, who had hurried up from their estate at Lady-burg the moment
they heard of the robbery, and piles of messages of concern and
congratulation, telegrams from the prime minister and from the Ou Baas,
General Smuts, and from a hundred friends and business associates.

Yet Centaine felt detached from the hubbub.  She watched it all through
a screen of gossamer which muted sound and shape and gave it a dreamlike
quality as though half of her was far away, drifting upon a beautiful
green river, making love in the warm soft night while the mosquitoes
whined outside the protective net, walking hand in hand with the man she
loved, a tall strong gentle man with soft green eyes, the hands of a
pianist and lovely sticky-out ears.

From her railway coach she telephoned Shasa and tried to sound
enthusiastic about the fact that he was now the captain of his cricket
eleven and about his mathematics marks which had at last taken an upward
turn.

I don't know when I will be back at Weltevreden, cheri.

I have so many things to see to.  We never recovered the diamonds, I'm
afraid.  There will have to be talks with the bank and I'll have to make
new arrangements.  No, of course not, silly boy!  Of course we aren't
poor, not yet, but a million pounds is a lot of money to lose, and then
there will be the trial.  Yes, he is an awful man, Shasa, but I don't
know if they will hang him.  Good Lord, no!  They won't let us watch-
TWice that first day of their separation she telephoned the residency in
the forlorn hope that Blaine would answer, but it was a woman, either a
secretary or Isabella, and each time she hung up without speaking.

They met again at the administrator's office the next day.

Blaine had called a press conference and there was a crowd of
journalists and photographers packed into the ante-chamber.

Once again Isabella was there in her wheelchair, with Blaine attentive
and dutiful and unbearably handsome behind her.

it took all Centaine's acting ability to shake hands in a friendly
fashion, and then to joke lightly with the members of the press, even
posing with Blaine for the photographs, and at no time to allow herself
to moon at him.  But afterwards as she drove herself back to the offices
of the Courtney Mining and Finance Company, she had to pull off into a
side road and sit quietly for a while to compose herself.  There had
been no opportunity for a single private exchange with Blaine.

Abe was waiting for her the moment she walked in through the front doors
and he followed her up the stairs and into her office. 'Centaine, you
are late.  They have been waiting in the boardroom for almost an hour. I
can't say with any great display of patience either.  Let them wait! she
told him with bravado she did not feel. 'They had better get accustomed
to it., The bank was her single largest creditor.

The loss of the stones has frightened ten different shades of yellow out
of them, Centaine.  The bank directors had been demanding this meeting
since the minute they heard she had arrived back in town.

Where is Dr Twenty-man-jones?  He is in there with them, pouring oil on
the troubled waters.  Abe laid a thick folder in front of her. 'Here are
the schedules of the interest repayments.  She glanced at them.  She
already knew them by heart.  She could recite dates and amounts and
rates.  She had already prepared her strategy in detail but it was all
dreamy and unreal, like a children's game.

Anything new that I should know about before we go into the lions den?
she asked.

A long cable from Lloyds of London.  They have repudiated the claim.  No
armed escort.  Centaine nodded.  We expected that.  Will we take them to
court?  What do you advise?  I am taking silk's opinion on that, but my
own feeling is that it will be a waste of time and money.  Anything
else?  De Beers, he said.  A message from Sir Ernest Oppenheimer
himself.  Sniffing around already, is he?  She sighed, trying to make
herself care, but she thought of Blaine instead.

She saw him bending over the wheelchair.  She pushed the image from her
mind and concentrated on what Abe was telling her.

Sir Ernest is coming up from Kimberley.  He will be arriving in Windhoek
on Thursday.  By some lucky chance, she smiled cynically.

He requests a meeting at your earliest convenience.  He has a nose like
a hyena and the eyesight of a vulture, Centaine said.  He can smell
blood and pick out a dying animal from a hundred leagues. 'He is after
the H'ani Mine, Centaine.  He has been lusting after the H'ani for
thirteen years.  They are all after the H'ani, Abe.  The bank, Sir
Ernest, all the predators.  By God, they'll have to fight me for it.
They stood up and Abe asked, Are you ready?  Centaine glanced at herself
in the mirror over the mantel, touched her hair, wet her lips with the
tip of her tongue, and suddenly it all clicked into crisp focus again.
She was going into battle, her mind cleared, her wits sharp, she smiled
a bright, confident, patronizing smile at herself.

She was ready again.

Let's go!  she said, and as they marched into the long boardroom with
its stinkwood table and the six huge magically lyrical Pierneef murals
of the desert places decorating the walls, she lifted her chin and her
eyes sparkled with assumed confidence.

Do forgive me, gentlemen, she cried lightly, attacking immediately with
the fall force of her personality and sexual allure and watching them
wilt before it, but I assure you that you now have me, and my full
attention, for as long as you want me.  Deep inside her there was still
that empty aching place which Blaine had filled for a few fleeting
moments, but it was buttressed and fortified, she was impregnable once
again, and as she took the leather upholstered chair at the head of the
table she recited silently to herself like a mantra: 'The H'ani belongs
to me, no one shall take it from me.  Manfred De La Rey moved as swiftly
through the darkness as the two grown men who led him northwards.  The
humiliation and pain of his father's dismissal had invoked within him a
new defiance and steely determination.  His father had called him a
blubbering ninny.

But I am a man now, he told himself, striding onwards after the dark
figure of Swart Hendrick.  I will never cry again.  I am a man, and I
will prove it every day I live.  I will prove it to you, Pa.  if you are
watching over me still, you will never have to be ashamed of me again.,
Then he thought of his father alone and dying upon the hilltop, and his
grief was overwhelming.  Despite his resolution, his tears rose to swamp
him and it took all his strength and his will to thrust them down.

I am a man now.  He fixed his mind upon it, and indeed he stood as tall
as a man, almost as tall as Hendrick, and his long legs thrust him
forward tirelessly.  I will make you proud of me, Papa.  I swear it.  I
swear it before God.  He neither slackened his pace nor uttered a single
complaint throughout that long night, and the sun was clear of the
treetops when they reached the river.

As soon as they had drunk Hendrick had them up again and moving
northwards.  They travelled in a series of loops, swinging away from the
river during the day, hiding out in the dry mopani, and then turning
back to slake their thirst and follow the riverbank all the hours of
darkness.

it was twelve of these nights of hard marching before Hendrick judged
them clear of any pursuit.

When will we cross the river, Hennie?  Manfred asked.

Never, Swart Hendrick told him.

But it was my father's plan to cross to the Portuguese, to Alves De
Santos the ivory trader, and then to travel to Luanda.  That was your
father's plan, Hendrick agreed.  But your father is not with us. There
is no place for a strange black man in the north.  The Portuguese are
even harder than the Germans or the English or the Boers.  They will
cheat us out of our diamonds, and beat us like dogs and send us to work
on their labour gangs.  No, Manie, we are going back, back to ovamboland
and our brothers of the tribe, where everyone is a friend and we can
live like men and not animals.  The police will find us, Manie argued.

No man saw us.  Your father made certain of that.  But they know you
were my father's friend.  They will come for you.  Hendrick grinned.  In
Ovamboland my name is not Hendrick, and a thousand witnesses will swear
I was always in my kraal and knew no white robber.

To the white police all black men look the same, and I have a brother, a
clever brother, who will know how and where to sell our diamonds for us.
With these stones I can buy two hundred fine cattle and ten fat wives.
No, Manie, we are going home.  And what will happen to me, Hendrick?  I
cannot go with you to the kraals of the Ovambo.  There is a place and a
plan for you.  Hendrick placed his arm around the white boy's shoulders,
a paternal gesture.

Your father has entrusted you to me.  You do not have to fear.  I will
see you safe before I leave you.  When you go, Hendrick, I will be
alone.  I will have nothing.  And the black man could not answer him. He
dropped his arm and spoke brusquely.  It is time to march again; a long,
hard road lies ahead of us.

They left the river that night and turned back towards the south-west,
skirting the terrible wastes of Bushmanland, keeping to the gentler,
better watered lands, striking a more leisurely pace but still avoiding
all habitation or human contact until, on the twentieth day after
leaving Lothar De La Rey on his fatal hilltop, they followed a wooded
ridge through well-pastured country and at last in the dusk looked down
on a sprawling Ovambo village.

The conical huts of thatch were built in haphazard clusters of four or
five, each surrounded by an enclosure of woven grass matting, and these
were grouped around the big central cattle kraal with its palisade of
poles set into the earth.  The smell of wood-smoke drifted up to them on
pale blue wisps, and it mingled with the arnmoniacal scent of cattle
dung and the floury smell of maize cakes baking on the coals.  The cries
of children's laughter and the voices of the women were melodious as
wild bird calls.  They picked out the gaudy flashes of the skirts of
bright trade cotton as the women came up in single file from the
water-hole with brimming clay pots balanced gracefully upon their heads.

However, they made no move to approach the village.

Instead they lay concealed upon the ridge, watching for strangers or any
sign of the unusual, even the smallest hint of danger, Hendrick and
Klein Boy quietly discussing each movement they spotted, each sound that
carried up from the village until Manfred grew impatient.

Why are we waiting, Hennie?  Only the stupid young gemsbok rushes
eagerly into the pitfall, Hendrick grunted.  We will go down when we are
certain.  In the middle of the afternoon a small black urchin drove a
herd of goats up the slope.  He was stark naked except for the slingshot
hanging around his neck, and Hendrick whistled softly.

The child started and stared at their hiding-place fearfully.

Then, when Hendrick whistled again, he crept towards them cautiously.
Suddenly he crinkled into a grin too big and white for his grubby face
and he rushed straight at Hendrick.

Hendrick laughed and lifted him onto his hip, and the child gabbled at
him in ecstatic excitement.

This is my son,Hendrick told Manie, and then he questioned the child and
listened to his piping replies with attention.

There are no strangers in the village, he grunted.  The police were
here, asking for me, but they have gone.  Still carrying the child, he
led them down the hill towards the largest of the clusters of huts, and
he stooped through the opening in the matting fence.  The yard was bare
and swept, the circle of huts facing inwards.  There were four women
working in a group, all of them wearing only loincloths of coloured
trade cotton; they rocked on the balls of their feet, singing softly in
chorus, stamping and crushing the raw dried maize in tall wooden
mortars, their bare breasts jerking and quivering with each stroke of
the long poles they wielded as pestles in time to their chant.

one of the women shrieked when she saw Hendrick and rushed to him.

She was an ancient crone, wrinkled and toothless, her pate covered with
pure white wool.  She dropped on her knees and hugged Hendrick's thick
powerful legs, crooning with happiness.

My mother, said Hendrick, and lifted her to her feet.

Then they were surrounded by a swarm of delighted chattering women, but
after a few minutes Hendrick quieted them and shooed them away.

You are lucky, Manie, he grunted, with a sparkle in his eyes. 'You will
be allowed only one wife.  At the entrance to the farthest hut the only
man in the kraal sat on a low carved stool.  He had kept completely
aloof from the screeching excitement, and now Hendrick crossed to him.
He was much younger than Hendrick, with paler, almost honey-coloured
skin.  However, his muscle had been forged and tempered by hard physical
labour, and there was a confidence about him, that of a man who has
striven and succeeded.  He had also an air of grace, and fine
intelligent features with a Nilotic cast like those of a young pharaoh.
Surprisingly he held a thick battered book in his lap, a copy of
Macaulay's History of England.

He greeted Hendrick with calm reserve, but their mutual affection was
apparent to the white Boy watching them.

This is my clever young brother; same father, but different mothers.  He
speaks Afrikaans and much better English than even I do, and he reads
books.  His English name is Moses.  I see you, Moses.  Manie felt
awkward under the penetrating scrutiny of those dark eyes.

I see you, little white boy.  Do not call me "boy", Manie said hotly.  I
am not a boy The men exchanged glances and smiled.  Moses is a bossboy
on the H'ani Diamond Mine, Hendrick explained in placatory fashion, but
the tall Ovambo shook his head and replied in the vernacular.

No longer, Big Brother.  I was sacked over a month ago.  So I sit here
in the sun drinking beer and reading and thinking, performing all those
onerous tasks which are a man's duty.  They laughed together, and Moses
clapped his hands and called to the women imperiously.

Bring beer, do you not see how my brother thirsts?  For Hendrick it was
good to divest himself of his western European clothing and dress again
in the comfortable loincloth, to let himself drift back into the pace of
village life.

It was good to savour the tart effervescent sorghum beer, thick as gruel
and cool in the clay pots, and to talk quietly of cattle and game, of
crops and rain, of acquaintances and friends and relatives, of deaths
and births and matings.  It was a long leisurely time before they came
circumspectly to the pressing issues which had to be discussed.

Yes, Moses nodded.  The police were here.  Two dogs of the white men in
Windhoek who should be ashamed to have betrayed their own tribe.

They were not dressed in uniform, but still they had the stink of police
upon them.  They stayed many days, asking questions about a man called
Swart Hendrick, smiling and friendly at first, then angry and
threatening.  They beat a few of the women, your mother, He saw Hendrick
stiffen and his jaw clench and went on quickly, She is old but tough.
She has been beaten before; our father was a strict man. Despite the
blows, she did not know Swart Hendrick, nobody knew Swart Hendrick, and
the police dogs went away.  They will return, said Hendrick, and his
half-brother nodded.

Yes.  The white men never forget.  Five years, ten years.

They hanged a man in Pretoria for killing a man twenty-five years
before.  They will return.  They drank in turn from the pot of beer,
sipping with relish and then passing the black pot from hand to hand.

So there was talk of a great robbery of diamonds on the road from the
H'ani, and they mentioned the name of the white devil with whom you have
always ridden and fought, with whom you went out on the big green to
catch fish.  They say that you were with him at the taking of the
diamonds, and that they will hang you on a rope when they find you.
Hendrick chuckled and counterattacked.  I also have heard stories of a
fellow who is neither unknown nor unrelated to me.  I have heard he is
well versed in the disposal of stolen diamonds.  That all the stones
taken from the H'ani Mine pass through his hands.  Now who could have
told you such vile lies?  Moses smiled faintly, and Hendrick gestured to
Klein Boy.  He brought a rawhide bag from its hiding place and placed it
in front of his father.  Hendrick opened the flap and, one at a time,
lifted out the small packages of brown cartridge paper and laid them on
the hard bare earth of the yard, fourteen in a row.

His brother took up the first package and with his sheath knife split
the wax seal.  This is the mark of the H'ani Mine, he remarked, and
carefully unfolded the paper.  His expression did not change as he
examined the contents.  He placed the package aside and opened the next.
He did not speak until he had opened all fourteen, and studied them.

Then he said softly, Death.  There is death here.  A hundred deaths, a
thousand deaths.  Can you sell them for us?  Hendrick asked, and Moses
shook his head.

I have never seen such stones, so many together.  To try to sell these
all at once would bring disaster and death upon us all.  I must think
upon this, but in the meantime we dare not keep these deadly stones in
the kraal.  The next morning in the dawn the three of them, Hendrick and
Moses and Klein Boy, left the village together and climbed to the crest
of the ridge where they found the leadwood tree that Hendrick remembered
from the days when he roamed here as a naked herdboy.  There was a
hollow in the trunk, thirty feet above the ground, which had been the
nesting hole of a pair of eagle owls.

While the others stood guard, Klein Boy climbed to the nesting hole,
carrying the rawhide bag.

It was many days more before Moses gave his carefully considered
summation.

My brother, you and I are no longer of this life or this place. Already
I have seen the first restlessness in you.  I have seen you look out to
the horizon with the expression of a man who longs to breast them.  This
life, so sweet at first, palls swiftly.  The taste of beer goes flat on
the tongue, and a man thinks of the brave things he has done, and the
braver things which wait for him still somewhere out there.  Hendrick
smiled.  You are a man of many skills, my brother, even that of looking
into a man's head and reading his secret thoughts.  We cannot stay here.
The death stones are too dangerous to keep here, too dangerous to sell.,
Hendrick nodded.  I am listening, he said.

There are things which I have to do.  Things which I believe are in my
destiny, and of which I have never spoken, not even to you. 'Speak of
them now.  I speak of the art which the white men call politics and from
which we as black men are excluded.  Hendrick made a dismissive scornful
gesture.  You read too many books.  There is no profit or reward in that
business.  Leave it to the white men.  You are wrong, my brother.  In
that art lie treasures which make your little white stones seem paltry.
No, do not scoff.  Hendrick opened his mouth and then closed it slowly.
He had not truly thought about this before, but the young man facing him
had a powerful presence, a quivering intensity which stirred and excited
him although he did not understand fully the implication of his words.

My brother, I have decided.  We will leave here.  It is too small for
us.  Hendrick nodded.  The thought did not disturb him.  He had been a
nomad all his life, and he was ready to move on again.

Not only this kraal, my brother.  We will leave this land. 'Leave this
land!  Hendrick started up and then sank back on his stool.

,We have to do this.  This land is too small for us and the stones.
Where will we go?  His brother held up his hand.  We will discuss that
soon, but first you must rid us of this white child you have brought
amongst us.  He is even more dangerous than the stones. He will bring
the white police down upon us even more swiftly.

When you have done that, my brother, we will be ready to go on to do
what we have to do.  Swart Hendrick was a man of great strength, both
physical and mental.  He feared very little, would attempt anything and
suffer much for what he wanted, but always he had followed someone else.
Always there had been a man even fiercer and more fearless than he to
lead him.

We will do as you say, my brother, he agreed, and he knew instinctively
that he had found someone to replace the man he had left to die upon a
rock in the desert.

I will wait here until the sun rises tomorrow, Swart Hendrick told the
white boy.  If you do not return by then, I will know you are safe.
,Will I see you again, Hennie?  Manie asked wistfully, and Hendrick
hesitated on the brink of empty promise.

I think that our feet will be on different paths from now on, Manie.  He
reached out and placed a hand on Manfred's shoulder.  But I shall think
of you often, and, who knows, one day the paths may come together again.
He squeezed the boy's shoulder and he noticed that it was sheathed in
muscle, like that of a man full grown.  Go in peace, and be a man like
your father was.  He pushed Manfred away lightly, but the white boy
lingered.  Hendrick, he whispered, there are many things I want to say
to you, but I do not have the words.

Hendrick said.  We both know.  It does not have to be spoken of. Go,
Manie.  Manfred picked up his pack and blanket roll and stepped out of
the undergrowth onto the dusty rutted road.  He started down towards the
village, towards the spire of the church which he recognized somehow as
a symbol of a new existence, that at once both beckoned and repelled
him.

At the bend in the road he looked back.  There was no sign of the big
Ovambo, and he turned and trudged down the main street towards the
church at the far end.

Without conscious decision he turned from the main street down a side
opening and approached the pastory along the sanitary lane as he had
done on the last visit with his father.  The narrow lane was hedged with
fleshy moroto plants, and he whiffed the sanitary buckets behind the
little sliding doors of the outhouses that backed onto the lane. He
hesitated at the back gate of the pastory and then lifted the latch and
started at a snail's pace up the long pathway.

Halfway along the path he was stopped by a bellow, and he stared about
him apprehensively.  There was another roar and a loud voice lifted in
exhortation or acrimonious argument.  It came from a ramshackle building
at the bottom of the yard, a large woodshed perhaps.

Manfred sidled down towards the shed and peered around the jamb of the
door.  The interior was dark but as his eyes adjusted Manfred saw that
it was a toolroom, with an anvil and forge at one end and tools hanging
on the walls.  The earthen floor was bare and in the centre of it knelt
Tromp Bierman, the trumpet of God.

He was wearing dark suit trousers and a white shirt with the white tie
of his office.  His suit jacket hung on a pair of blacksmith's tongs
above the anvil.  Tromp Bierman's bushy beard was pointed to the roof
and his eyes were closed, his arms lifted in an attitude of surrender or
supplication; but his tone was far from submissive.

Oh Lord God of Israel, I call upon you most urgently to give answer to
your servant's prayers for guidance in this matter.  How can I perform
your will if I do not know what it is?  I am only a humble instrument, I
dare not take this decision alone.  Look down, oh Lord God, have pity on
my ignorance and stupidity and make known your intentions, Tromp broke
off suddenly and opened his eyes.  The great shaggy leonine head turned,
and the eyes, like those of an Old Testament prophet, burned into
Manfred's soul.

Hastily Manfred snatched the shapeless sweatstained hat from his head
and held it with both hands to his chest.

I have come back, Oom, he said.  Just like you said I must. Tromp stared
at him ferociously.  He saw a sturdy lad, broad-shouldered and with
powerful shapely limbs, a head of dusty golden curls and contrasting
eyebrows black as coal dust over strange topaz-coloured eyes.  He tried
to see beyond the pale surface of those eyes and was aware of an aura of
determination and lucid intelligence that surrounded the youth.

Come here, he ordered, and Manfred dropped his pack and went to him.
Tromp seized him by the hand and dragged him down.

Kneel, Jong, get down on your knees and give thanks to your Maker.
Praise the Lord God of your fathers that he has heard my supplications
on your behalf.  Dutifully Manfred closed his eyes and clasped his hand.

Oh Lord, forgive your servant's importunity in bringing to your notice
such other trivial matters, when in fact you were occupied with more
dire affairs.  We thank you for delivering into our care this young
person, whom we shall temper and hone into a sword.  A mighty blade that
shall strike down the Philistine, a weapon that shall be wielded to your
glory, in the just and righteous cause of your chosen people, the
Afrikaner VoLk.  He prodded Manfred with a forefinger like a pruning
shear.

Amen!  Manfred gasped at the pain.

We will glorify and praise you all the days of our life, O Lord, and we
beg of you to bestow upon this chosen son of our people the fortitude
and the determination, The prayer, punctuated by Manfred's fervent Amens
lasted until Manfred's knees ached and he was dizzy with fatigue and
hunger.  Then suddenly Tromp hauled him to his feet and marched him up
the path to the kitchen door.

Mevrou, the trumpet of God sounded.  Where are you, woman? Trudi Bierman
rushed breathlessly into the kitchen at the summons and then stopped
aghast, staring at the boy in ragged, filthy clothing.

My kitchen, she wailed.  My beautiful clean kitchen.  I have just waxed
the floor.

The Lord God has sent this Jong to us, Tromp intoned.

We will take him into our home.  He will eat at our table, he will be as
one of our own.  But he is filthy as a kaffir.  Then wash him, woman,
wash him.  At that moment a girl slipped timidly through the doorway
behind the matronly figure of Trudi Bierman and then stiffened like a
frightened fawn as she saw Manfred.

Manfred barely recognized Sarah.  She had filled out, firm well-scrubbed
flesh covered her elbows, which had so recently been bony lumps on
sticklike arms.  Her once pale cheeks were apple pink, the eyes that had
been lacklustre were clear and bright, her blond hair, brushed until it
shone,

was plaited into twin pigtails and pinned on top of her head, and she
wore long modest but spotless skirts to her ankles.

She let out a cry and rushed at Manfred with arms outstretched, but
Trudi Bierman seized her from behind and shook her soundly.

You lazy wicked girl.  I left you to finish your sums.  Back you go this
instant.  She pushed her roughly from the room and turned back to
Manfred, her arms folded and her mouth pursed.

You are disgusting, she told him.  Your hair is long as a girl's.  Those
clothes, Her expression hardened even more fearsomely.  And we are
Christian folk in this house.  We'll have none of your father's godless
wild ways, do you understand?  I'm hungry, Aunt Trudi.  You'll eat when
everybody else eats, and not before you are clean.  She looked at her
husband.  Menheer, will you show the boy how to build a fire in the
hotwater geyser?  She stood in the doorway of the tiny bathroom and
remorselessly supervised his ablutions, brushing aside all his attempts
at modesty and his protests at the temperature of the water, and when he
faltered, taking the bar of blue mottled soap herself and scrubbing his
most tender and intimate creases and folds.

Then with only a skimpy towel about his waist she led him by the ear
down the back steps and sat him on a fruit box.  She armed herself with
a pair of sheep shears and Manfred's blond hair fell about his shoulders
like wheat before the scythe.  When he ran his hand over his scalp it
was stubbly and bristly and the back of his neck and the skin behind his
ears felt cool and draughty.

Trudi Bierman gathered up his discarded clothing with a pantomime of
distaste and opened the furnace of the geyser.

Manfred was only just in time to rescue his jacket, and when she saw his
expression as he backed away from her, holding the garment behind his
back and surreptitiously fingering the small lumps in the lining, she
shrugged.

Very well, perhaps with a wash and a few patches.  In the meantime I'll
find you some of the dominie's old things.  Trudi Bierman took Manfred's
appetite as a personal challenge to her kitchen and her culinary skills.
She kept heaping his plate even before he had finished, standing over
him with a ladle in one hand and the handle of the stew-pot in the
other.  When at last he fell back satiated, she went to fetch the milk
tart from the pantry with a victorious gleam in her eye.

As strangers in the family, Manfred and Sarah were allocated the
lowliest seats in the centre of the table, the two plump, pudding-faced,
blond Bierman daughters sitting above them.

Sarah picked at her food so lightly that she earned Trudi Bierman's ire.
I didn't cook good food for you to fiddle with, young lady.  You'll sit
here as long as it takes you to clean your plate, spinach and all, even
if that takes all night., And Sarah chewed mechanically, never taking
her eyes from Manfred's face.

It was the first time that Manfred had paid for a meal with two graces,
before and after, and each of them seemed interminable.  He was nodding
and swaying in his chair when Tromp Bierman startled him fully awake
with an Amen like a salvo of artillery.

The pastory was already groaning at the seams with Sarah and the Bierman
offspring.  There was no place for Manfred, so he was allocated a corner
of the tool-shed at the bottom of the yard.  Aunt Trudi had turned a
packing case on end to act as a cupboard for his few cast-off items of
clothing and there was an iron bed with a hard lumpy coir mattress and a
faded old curtain hung on a string to screen his sleeping corner.

Don't waste the candle, Aunt Trudi cautioned him from the doorway of the
tool-shed.  You will only get a new one on the first day of each month.
We are thrifty folk here.

None of your father's extravagances, thank you!  Manfred pulled the thin
grey blanket over his head to protect his naked scalp from the chill. It
was the first time in his life that he had had a bed and room of his own
and he revelled in the sensation, sniffing the aroma of axle grease and
paraffin and the dead coals in the forge as he fell asleep.

He woke to a light touch on his cheek and cried out confused images
rushed out of the darkness to terrify him.

He had dreamed of his father's hand, reeking of gangrene, that had
reached across from the far side of the grave and he struggled up from
under the blanket.

Manie, Manie.  It's me.  Sarah's voice was as terrified as his own cry
had been.  She was silhouetted by the moonlight through the single
un-curtained window, thin and shivering in a white nightdress, her hair
brushed out and hanging to her shoulders in a silvery cloud.

What are you doing here?  he mumbled.  You mustn't come here. You must
go.  If they find you here they will, he broke off.  He was not sure
what the consequences would be, but he knew instinctively that they
would be severe.

This strange but pleasant new sense of security and belonging would be
shattered.

I've been so unhappy.  He could tell by her voice that she was crying.
Ever since you went away.  The girls are so cruel they call me vuilgoed,
"trash".  They tease me because I can't read and do sums the way they
can and because I speak funny.  I've cried every night since you went
away.  Manfred's heart went out to her, and despite his nervousness at
being discovered, he reached out for her and drew her down onto the bed.
I'm here now.  I'll look after you, Sarie, he whispered.  I won't let
them tease you any more.  She sobbed against his neck, and he told her
sternly, I don't want any more crying, Sarie.  You aren't a baby any
more.  You must be brave.  I was crying because I was happy, she
sniffed.

No more crying, not even when you are happy, he ordered.  Do you
understand?  And she nodded furiously, and made a little choking sound
as she brought her tears under control.

I've thought about you every day, she whispered.  I prayed to God to
bring you back like you promised.  Can I get into bed with you, Manie?
I'm cold.  No, he said firmly.  You must go back, before they catch you
here.  Just for a moment, she pleaded and before he could protest she
had wriggled around, lifted the blanket and slipped under the corner.

She wrapped herself around him.  The nightdress was thin and worn, her
body cold and shivery, and he could not bring himself to chase her out.

,Five minutes, he muttered.  Then you have to go.  Swiftly the heat
flowed back into her small body, and her hair was soft against his face
and smelt good, like the fur of an unweaned kitten, milky and warm.  She
made him feel old and important, and he stroked her hair with a paternal
proprietary feeling.

Do you think God answers our prayers?  she asked softly.

I prayed the hardest I know how, and here you are, just like I asked.
She was silent a moment.  But it took a long time and a lot of prayers.
I don't know about prayers, he admitted.  My pa never prayed much.  He
never taught me how.  Well, you better get used to it now, she warned
him.  In this house, everybody prays all the time. When she at last
crept out of the tool-shed back to the big house, she left a warm patch
on the mattress, and a warmer place in his heart.

It was still dark when Manfred was roused by a blast from the Trumpet of
God in person.

Ten seconds and then you get a bucket of cold water, long.  And Uncle
Tromp led him, shivering and covered in goosebumps, to the trough beside
the stables.

Cold water is the best cure for the sins of the young flesh, Jong, Uncle
Tromp told him with relish.  You will muck out the stables and curry the
pony before breakfast, do you hear?  The day was a dizzying succession
of labour and prayer, the household chores sandwiched between long
sessions of school work and even longer sessions on their knees, while
either Uncle Tromp or Aunt Trudi exhorted God to step up their
performance or visit them with all kinds of retribution.

Yet by the end of the first week Manfred had subtly rearranged the
pecking order amongst the perman younger members of the household.  He
had quelled the Bierman girls first furtive but concerted attempts at
mockery with a steady implacable stare from his yellow eyes, and they
retreated in twittering consternation.

Over the school books it was different.  His cousins were all dedicated
scholars, with the benefit of a lifetime of enforced study. As Manfred
grimly applied himself to the tome of German grammar and Melckes
Mathematics for Secondary Schools, their smug self-satisfied smiles at
his floundering replies to Aunt Trudi's catechism were all the incentive
he needed.

I'll show them, he promised himself, and he was so committed to the task
of catching and overhauling his cousins that it was days before he
became aware of how the Bierman girls were victimizing little Sarah.
Their cruelty was refined and secretive; a jibe, a name, a mocking face;
calculated exclusion from their games and laughter; sabotage of her
domestic chores, a soot stain on garments Sarah had just ironed, rumpled
linen on a bed she had just made, grease marks on dishes she had washed;
and vicious grins when Sarah was chastised for laziness and negligence
by Aunt Trudy who was only too pleased to perform this godly duty, with
the back of a hairbrush.

Manfred caught each of the Bierman girls alone.  Held them by the
pigtails and looked into their eyes from a range of a few inches while
he spoke in a soft measured voice that hissed with passion and ended -
and don't run and tell tales to your mother, either.  Their deliberate
cruelty ended with dramatic suddenness, and under Manfred's protection
Sarah was left severely alone.

At the end of that first week, after the fifth church service of a long,
tedious Sunday, one of the cousins appeared in the doorway of the
tool-shed where Manfred was stretched on his bed with his German
grammar.

My pa wants to see you in his study.  And the messenger wrung one hand
in a parody of looming disaster.

Manfred soused his short-cropped hair under the tap and tried to brush
it flat in the splinter of mirror wedged above his bed.  It immediately
sprang up again in damp spikes and he gave up the effort and hurried to
answer the summons.

He had never been allowed into the front rooms of the pastory.  They
were sacrosanct, and of these the dominie's

study was the holy of holies.  He knew from warnings, repeated by his
cousins with morbid relish, that a summons to this room was always
associated with punishment and pain.  He trembled on the threshold,
knowing that Sarah's nightly visits to the tool-shed had been
discovered, and he started wildly at the bellow that answered his timid
knock, then pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside.

Uncle Tromp stood behind the sombre stinkwood desk, leaning on clenched
fists that were placed in the centre of the blotter.  Come in, Jong.
Shut the door.  Don't just stand there!  he roared and dropped heavily
into his chair.

Manfred stood before him, trying to form the words of repentance and
atonement, but before he could utter them, Uncle Tromp spoke again.

Well, Jong, I have had reports of you from your aunt.  His tone was at
odds with his ferocious expression.  She tells me that your education
has been sadly neglected, but that You are willing and seem to be
applying yourself.  Manfred sagged with relief so intense that he had
difficulty following the long exhortation that followed.  We are the
underdogs, long.  We are the victims of oppression and Milnerism.
Manfred knew about Lord Milner from his father; the notorious English
governor and opponent of Afrikanderdom under whose decree all children
who spoke the Afrikaans language in school were forced to wear a dunce's
cap with the legend I am a donkey, I spoke Dutch inscribed upon it.
There is Only one way that we can overcome our enemies, Jong.  We have
to become cleverer and stronger and more ruthless than they are.  The
Trumpet of God became so absorbed by his own words, that he lifted his
gaze to the elaborate patterns of the fancy plastered ceiling and his
eyes glazed over with a mixture of religious and political fanaticism,
leaving Manfred free to glance around him furtively at the
over-furnished room.

Bookshelves covered three walls, all of them stacked with religious and
serious tomes.  John Calvin and the authors of the Presbyterian form of
church government predominated, though there were works of history and
philosophy, law and biography, dictionaries and encyclopaedia and
shelves of hymns and collected sermons in High Dutch, German and
English.

The fourth wall, directly behind Uncle Tromp's desk, carried a gallery
of photographs, stern ancestors in Sunday finery in the top row and
then, below them, devout congregations or learned members of synod, all
featuring amongst them the unmistakable likeness of Tromp Bierman - a
gradually maturing and ageing succession of Tromps, from cleanshaven and
bright-eyed youth to bearded leonine maturity in the front row.

Then, quite incongruously and startlingly, a framed and yellowing
photograph, the largest of them all and situated in the most prominent
position, depicting a young man stripped to the waist, wearing
full-length tights, and about his middle a magnificent belt, gleaming
with engraved silver buckles and medallions.

The man in the photograph was Tromp Bierman aged no more than
twenty-five, cleanshaven, his hair parted in the middle and plastered
flat with brilliantine, his powerful body marvellously muscled, his
clenched fists held before him, crouching in the classic stance of the
pugilist.  A small table in front of him held a treasure of glittering
cups and sporting trophies.  The young man smiled out of the photograph,
strikingly handsome, and in Manfred's eyes, impossibly dashing and
romantic.

You are a boxer, he blurted out, unable to contain his wonder and
admiration, and the Trumpet of God was cut off in mid-blast.  The great
shaggy head lowered, the eyes blinking as they readjusted to reality and
then swivelling to follow Manfred's gaze.

Not just a boxer, said Uncle Tromp.  But a champion.

Light heavyweight champion of the Union of South Africa.  He looked back
and saw the expression on Manfred's face, and his own expression warmed
and melted with remembrance and gratification.

Did you win all those cups, and that belt?  I surely did, Jong.

I smote the Philistines hip and thigh.  I struck them down in their
multitudes.  Did you only fight Philistines, Uncle Tromp?  They were all
Philistines, Jong.  As soon as they stepped into the ring with me they
became Philistines and I fell upon them without mercy, like the hammer
and the sword of the Almighty.  Tromp Bierman lifted his clenched fists
in front of him and shot out a swift tattoo of punches, firing them
across the desk, stopping each blow only inches from Manfred's nose.

I made my living with these fists, jong.  All corners at ten pounds a
time.  I fought Mike Williams and put him down in the sixth, the great
Mike Williams himself.  He grunted as he weaved and boxed in his chair
Ha!  Ha!  Left!  Right!

Left!  I even thrashed the black Jephta, and I took the title from Jack
Lalor in 1916.  I can still hear the cheers now as Lalor hit the canvas.
Sweet, my Jong, so very sweet, he broke off, and replaced his hands in
his lap, his expression becoming dignified and stern once again.  Then
your Aunt Trudi and the Lord God of Israel called me from the ring to
more important work.  And the gleam of battle lust faded regretfully
from Uncle Tromp's eyes.

Boxing and being champion, that would be the most important thing for
me, Manfred breathed, and Tromp's gaze focused thoughtfully upon him. He
looked him over carefully from the top of his cropped head to his large
but well-proportioned feet in battered velskoen.

YOU want to learn to fight?  He dropped his voice, and glanced at the
door, a conspiratorial gesture.

Manfred could not answer; his throat was closed with excitement, but he
nodded vigorously and Uncle Tromp went on in his normal piercing tones.

Your Aunt Trudi doesn't approve of brawling.  Quite right too! Fisticuff
s are for hooligans.  Put the thought from your mind, Jong. Think on
higher planes.  He shook his head so A vigorously that his beard was
disarranged, it took that effort to dislodge the notion from his own
head, and he combed his beard with his fingers as he went on.

TO return to what I was saying.  Your aunt and I think it best that you
drop the name De La Rey for the time being.

You shall adopt the name Bierman until the notoriety of your father's
trial fades.  There has already been too much mention of that name in
the newspapers, those organs of Lucifer.  Your aunt is quite right in
not allowing them into this house.  There will be a great hoo-ha once
the trial of your father begins in Windhoek next month.  It could bring
shame and disgrace on you and this family.  My father's trial?  Manfred
stared at him without comprehension.  But my father is dead.  Dead?  Is
that what you thought?  Tromp stood up and came around the desk. Forgive
me, Jong.  He placed both his huge hands on Manfred's shoulders.  I have
caused you unnecessary suffering by not speaking of this earlier.  Your
father is not dead.  He has been captured by the police, and he will
stand trial for his life at the Supreme Court in Windhoek on the
twentieth of next month.  He steadied Manfred as the boy reeled at the
impact of the words and then went on with a gentle rumble.  Now you
understand why we want you to change your name, Jong.  Sarah had hurried
through her ironing and sneaked out of the house.  She was perched now
on top of the woodpile with her knees drawn up under her chin, hugging
her legs with both arms as she watched Manfred at work.  She loved to
watch him with the axe.  It was a long two -handed axe, with a
red-painted head and a bright edge to the blade.  Manie sharpened it on
the whetstone until he could shave the fine gold hair off the back of
his hand with it.

He had taken off his shirt and given it to her to hold.  His chest and
back were all shiny with sweat.  She liked the way he smelled when he
sweated, like newly baked bread, or like a sun-warm fig just picked from
the tree.

Manfred laid another log in the cradle and stood back.  He spat on the
palms of his hands.  He always did that and she involuntarily worked up
a ball of spit in her own mouth in sympathy.  Then he hefted the long
axe and she tensed herself .

Five times table, he ordered, and swung the axe in a long looping blow.
It hummed faintly over his head as he brought it down.  The bright blade
buried itself in the log with a clunk and at the same instant Manie gave
a sharp explosive grunt of effort.

Five ones are five, she recited in time to the swinging axe.

Five twos are ten.  Manie grunted and a white wedge of wood flew as high
as his head.

Five threes are fifteen.  The axe head spun a bright circle m the yellow
light of the lowering sun, and Sarah chanted shrilly as the wood chips
pelted down like hail.

The log dropped from the cradle in two pieces just as Sarah cried, 'Five
tens are fifty.  Manie stepped back and leaned on the axe handle, and
grinned at her.

Very good, Sarie, not a single mistake.  She preened with pleasure, and
then stared over his shoulder, her expression suddenly stricken and
guilty.  She leapt down from the woodpile and in a swirl of skirts
scampered back up the path to the house.

Manie turned quickly.  Uncle Tromp was leaning against the corner of the
tool-shed watching him.

I'm sorry, Uncle Tromp.  He ducked his head.  I know she shouldn't be
here, but I just can't send her away.  Uncle Tromp pushed himself away
from the wall and came slowly to where Manfred stood.  He moved like a
great bear with long arms dangling, and he circled Manfred slowly,
examining him with a small distracted frown creasing his forehead.

Manfred squirmed self-consciously, and Uncle Tromp prodded his gut with
a large painful finger.

How old are you, jong?  Manfred told him and Uncle Tromp nodded. 'Three
years to full growth.  You'll class light-heavy, I'd say, unless you
make a spurt at the end and go full heavyweight.  Manfred felt his skin
prickle at the unfamiliar but somehow tremendously exciting terms, and
Uncle Tromp left him and went to the woodpile.  Deliberately he stripped
off the dark jacket of his suit and folded it neatly.  He laid it on the
woodpile and then un-knotted.  his white minister's tie and laid that
meticulously on top of his jacket.  He came back to Manfred rolling up
the sleeves of his white shirt.

So you want to be a boxer?  he asked, and Manfred nodded, unable to
speak.

Put the axe away.  Manfred buried the blade in the chopping stump and
faced his uncle again.  Uncle Tromp held up his open right hand, palm
towards Manfred.

Hit it, he said.  Manfred clenched his fist and made a tentative
rOund-arm swing.

,you aren't knitting socks, long, you aren't kneading bread.

What are you, a man or a kitchen maid?  Hit it, man.  Hit it!

That's better, don't swing it around the back of your head, shoot it
out!  Harder!  Harder!  That's more like it.  Now your left, that's it!
Left!  Right!  Left!  Uncle Tromp was holding up both hands now, swaying
and dancing in front of him, and Manfred followed him eagerly, socking
alternate fists into the big open palms.

All right.  Tromp dropped his hands.  Now hit me.  Hit me in the face.
Go on, hard as you can.  Right on the button.

Let's see you knock me on my back.  Manfred dropped his hands and
stepped back.

I can't do that, Uncle Tromp, he protested.

Can't do what, Jong?  What can't you do?  couldn't hit you.  It wouldn't
be right.  It wouldn't be respectful.  So we are talking respect now,
not boxing.  We are talking powder puffs and ladies gloves, are we?
Uncle Tromp roared.  I thought you wanted to fight. I thought you wanted
to be a man and now I find a snot-nosed whining baby.  He changed his
voice to a cracked falsetto.  It wouldn't be right, Uncle Tromp, it
wouldn't be respectful, he mimicked.

Suddenly his right shot out and the open palm b cracked against
Manfred's cheek, a stinging slap that left the scarlet imprint of
fingers on his skin.

You're not respectful, Jong.  You're yellow.  That's what you are, a
yellow-bellied whimpering little boy.  You're not a man!  You'll never
be a fighter!  The other huge paw blurred with speed, coming so fast and
unexpectedly that Manfred barely saw it.  The pain of the blow filled
his eyes with tears.

We'll have to find a skirt for you, girlie, a yellow skirt. Uncle Tromp
was watching him carefully, watching his eyes, praying silently for it
to happen as he poured withering contempt on the sturdy youth who
retreated, bewildered and uncertain.  He followed and struck again,
cutting Manfred's lower lip, splitting the soft skin against his teeth,
leaving a smear of blood down his chin.

Come on!  he exhorted silently, behind the jeering flood of insults.
Come on, please, come on!  Then with a great explosion of joy that
filled his chest to bursting, he saw it happen.  Manfred dropped his
chin, and his eyes changed.  Suddenly they glowed with a cold yellow
light, implacable as the stare of a lion in the moment before it
launches its charge, and the youth came at him.

Though he had been waiting for it, expecting it, praying for it, still
the speed and savagery of the attack caught Uncle Tromp off balance.
Only the old fighter's instinct saved him, and he deflected that first
murderous assault, sensing the power in the fists that grazed his temple
and ruffled his beard as they passed, and for the first few desperate
seconds

there was no time for thought.  All his wits and attention were needed
to stay on his feet and keep the cold, ferocious animal he had created
at bay.

Then experience and ring-craft, long forgotten, reasserted themselves,
and he ducked and dodged and danced easily just beyond the boy's reach,
deflecting the wild punches, watching objectively as though he sat in a
ringside seat, assessing with rising delight the way in which the
untutored youth used either fist with equal power and dexterity.

A natural two-handed puncher!  He doesn't favour his right, and he gets
his shoulders behind every punch without being taught how!  he exulted.

Then he looked again at the eyes and felt a chill of awe at what he had
loosed upon the world.

He's a killer.  He recognized it.  He has the instinct of the leopard
who kills for the taste of blood and the simple joy of it.  He no longer
sees me.  He sees only the prey before him.  That knowledge had
distracted him.  He caught a right-hander on his upper arm and it jarred
the teeth in his jaws and the bones of his ankles.  He knew it would
bruise him from the shoulder to the elbow, and his breath burned in his
throat.  His legs were turning to lead.  He could feel his heart
drumming against his ribs.  Twenty-two years since he had been in the
ring; twenty-two years of Trudi's cooking and his most vigorous exercise
undertaken either at his desk or in the pulpit, while the youth before
him was like a machine, boring in remorselessly, both fists swinging,
those yellow eyes fixed upon him in a murderous myopic stare.

Uncle Tromp gathered himself, waited for the opening as Manfred swung
right-handed, and then he counter-punched with his left, always his
best, the same blow that had dropped black Jephta in the third, and it
went in with that beautiful little click of bone against bone.

Manfred dropped to his knees, stunned, the killing yellow light fading
from his eyes to be replaced by a dull bemused look, as though awakening
from a trance.

That's it, Jong.  The Trumpet of God's fine note was reduced to a
breathy gasp.  Down on your knees and give thanks to your Maker. Uncle
Tromp lowered his bulk beside Manfred and placed a thick arm around his
shoulders.  He raised his face and his unsteady voice to heaven.
Almighty God, we give You thanks for the strong body with which You have
endowed Your young servant.  We give You thanks also for his natural
left, while realizing that it will need a lot of hard work - and we
humbly beseech You to look favourably upon our efforts to instil in him
even the rudiments of footwork.  His right hand is a blessing directly
from You, for which we will always be eternally grateful, though he will
have to learn not to telegraph it five days in advance of the punch.
Manfred was still shaking his head and rubbing his jaw, but he responded
to the probing thumb in his ribs with a fervent Amen.  We will begin
roadwork immediately, O Lord, while we set up a ring in the tool-shed in
which to learn the ropes, and we humbly beseech Your blessing on our
enterprise and Your cooperation in keeping it from coming to the notice
of Your servant's partner in holy matrimony, Trudi Bierman.  Most
afternoons, under the pretext of visiting one of his parishioners, Uncle
Bierman would put the pony in the trap and drive out of the front gate
with a flourish, waving to his wife on the front stoep.  Manfred would
be waiting at the clump of camel-thorn trees beside the main Windhoek
road, already barefoot and stripped to khaki shorts, and he would trot
out and fall in beside the trap as Uncle Tromp shook the fat pony into a
canter.

five miles today, Jong, down to the river bridge and back, and we'll do
it a bit faster than yesterday.  The gloves that Uncle Tromp had
smuggled down from the trunk in the loft were cracked with age, but they
patched them with wood-glue and the first time he laced them onto
Manfred's hands he watched while the lad lifted them to his nose and
sniffed them.

The smell of leather and sweat and blood, long.  Fill your nostrils with
it.  You'll live with it from now on.  Manfred punched the tattered old
gloves together, and for a moment that flat yellow light glowed in his
eyes again, then he grinned.

They feel good, he said.

Nothing feels better, Uncle Tromp agreed, and led him to the heavy
canvas kitbag filled with river sand that hung from the rafters in the
corner of the tool-shed.

To begin with I want to see that left hand do some work.

it's like a wild horse; we have to break it and train it, teach it not
to waste strength and effort.  it has to learn to do our bidding, not
flap around in the air.  They built the ring together, quarter-full size
for the tool-shed would take no more, and they sank the corner poles
deep in the earthern floor and cemented them in.  Then they stretched a
sheet of canvas over the floor.  The canvas and the cement had been
commandeered from one of Uncle Tromp's wealthy parishioners, For the
glory of God and the VoLk, an appeal that could not be lightly
dismissed.

Sarah, sworn to secrecy by the most solemn and dreadful oath that
Manfred and Uncle Tromp could concoct between them, was allowed to watch
the ring-work, even though she was a thoroughly partisan audience and
she cheered shrilly and shamelessly for the younger participant.

After two of these sessions, which left Uncle Tromp unmarked but blowing
like a steam engine, he shook his head ruefully.  It's no use, Jong,
either we have to find you another sparring partner, or I'll have to
start training again myself., Thereafter the pony was left tethered in
the camel-thorn clump and Uncle Tromp grunted and gasped beside Manfred
on the long runs, while the sweat fell from his beard like the first
rains of summer.

However, his protuberant gut shrivelled miraculously, and soon from
under the layers of soft fat that covered his shoulders and chest the
outline of hard muscle reappeared.

Gradually they stepped up the rounds from two to four minutes with
Sarah, elected official timekeeper, measuring each round with Uncle
Tromp's cheap silver pocket watch which made up for its dubious accuracy
by its size.

It was almost a month before Uncle Tromp could say to himself, though he
would never have dreamed of saying it to Manfred, He is starting to look
like a boxer now., Instead he said: Now I want speed.

I want you to be fast as a mamba brave as a ratel.  The mamba was the
most dreaded of all Africa's serpents.

It could grow as thick as a man's wrist and reach twenty feet in length.
Its venom could inflict death on a fully grown man in four minutes, an
excruciating death.  The mamba was so swift that it could overhaul a
galloping horse, and the strike was so swift as to cheat the eye.

Fast as a mamba, brave as a ratel,Uncle Tromp repeated, as he would a
hundred, a thousand times in the years ahead.

The ratel was the African honey badger, a small animal with a loose but
thick tough skin that could defy the bite of a mastiff or the fangs of a
leopard, a massive flattened skull from which the heaviest club bounced
harmlessly, and the heart of a lion, the courage of a giant.  Normally
mild and forbearing, it would fearlessly attack the largest adversary
the instant that it was provoked.  Legend had it that the ratel
possessed an instinct for the groin and that it would rush in and rip
the testicles out of any male animal, man or bull buffalo or lion, who
threatened it.

I've got something to show you, Jong.  Uncle Tromp led Manfred to the
big wooden chest against the back wall of the tool-shed and opened the
lid.  It's for you.  I ordered it by mail order from Cape Town. It
arrived on the train yesterday.  He placed the tangle of leather and
rubber in Manfred's arms.

What is it, Uncle Tromp?  Come, I'll show you.  Within minutes Uncle
Tromp had rigged the complicated contraption.

Well, what do you think, Jong?  He stood back, beaming hugely through
his beard.

It's the best present anyone has ever given me, Uncle Tromp.  But what
is it?  You call yourself a boxer and you don't know a speed bag when
you see one!  A speed bag!  It must have cost a lot of money.  it did,
Jong, but don't tell your Aunt Trudi.  What do we do with it? 'This is
what we do!  cried Uncle Tromp, and he started the bag rattling against
the frame in a rapid staccato rhythm, using both fists, taking the ball
on the bounce, keeping it going unerringly until at last he stepped back
panting.

Speed, jong, fast as a mamba.  Faced with Uncle Tromp's generosity and
enthusiasm, Manfred had to gather all his courage to speak the words
that had been burning his tongue all these weeks.

He waited until the last possible moment of the last possible day before
blurting out.  I have to go away, Uncle Tromp, and he watched in agony
the disappointment and disbelief flood over the craggy bearded face that
he had come so swiftly and naturally to love.

Go away?  You want to leave my house?  Uncle Tromp stopped short in the
dust of the Windhoek road and wiped the sweat from his face with the
threadbare towel draped around his neck.  Why, Jong, why?  My pa,
Manfred answered.  My pa's trial starts in three days time.  I have to
be there, Uncle Tromp.  I have to go, but I will come back.  I swear I
will come back, just as soon as I can.  Uncle Tromp turned from him and
began to run again, pounding down the long straight road, the dust
puffing from under his bearlike feet at each pace, and Manfred sprinted
up beside him.  Neither of them spoke again until they reached the clump
of trees where the pony trap was hitched.

Oom Tromp climbed up into the driver's seat and picked up the reins.  He
looked down at Manfred standing beside the front wheel.

I wish, Jong, that I had a son of my own to show me such loyalty, he
rumbled softly, and shook the pony into a trot.

The following evening, long after dinner and the evening prayers,
Manfred lay on his bed, the candle on the shelf above his head carefully
screened so that not a glimmer could alert Aunt Trudi to his
extravagance.  He was reading Goethe, his father's favourite author. It
wasn't easy.  His German had improved vastly.  On two days a week Aunt
Trudi insisted that no other language was spoken in the household, and
she initiated erudite discussion at the dinner-table in which all
members of the family were expected nay, forced, to participate.  Still
Goethe wasn't a Tromp, and Manfred was concentrating so fiercely on his
convoluted use of verbs that he didn't know Uncle Tromp was in the room
until his shadow fell across the bed and the book was lifted from his
hand.

you will ruin your eyes, Jong.  Manfred sat up quickly and swung his
legs off the bed while Uncle Tromp sank down beside him.

For a few moments the old man leafed through the book.

Then he spoke without looking up.  Rautenbach is going in to Windhoek
tomorrow in his T-model Ford.  He is taking in a hundred turkeys to
market, but he will have room for you on the back.  You'll have to put
up with flying feathers and turkey shit, but it's cheaper than the
train.  Thank you, Uncle Tromp.  There is an old widow in town, devout
and decent, also a very good cook.  She'll take you in. I've written to
her.  He drew a sheet of his notepaper from his pocket and placed it in
Manfred's lap.  The single sheet was folded and sealed with a blob of
red wax, a back country minister's stipend could not encompass the
luxury of envelopes.

Thank you, Uncle Tromp.  Manfred could think of nothing else to say.  He
wanted to fling his arms round that thick bearlike neck and lay his
cheek against the coarse grey-shot beard, but he controlled himself.

There may be other expenses, Uncle Tromp gruffed.  I don't know how you
will get back here.  Anyway, He groped in his pocket, seized Manfred's
wrist with the other hand, and pressed something into his open palm.

Manfred looked down at the two bright half-crown coins in his hand and
shook his head slowly.

Uncle Tromp Say nothing, jong, especially not to your Aunt Trudi.  Uncle
Tromp began to stand, but Manfred caught his sleeve.

Uncle Tromp.  I can pay you back, for this and all the other things.  I
know you will, Jong.  You will pay me back a thousand times, in pride
and joy one day.  No, no, not one day.  Now.  I can pay you back now.
Manfred sprang eagerly from the bed and ran to the upended packing case
standing on four bricks that was his wardrobe.  He knelt and thrust his
arm into the space below the box and brought out a yellow tobacco bag.
He hurried back to where Uncle Tromp sat on the iron bed, pulling open
the drawstring of the small pouch, his hands shaking with excitement and
eagerness to please.

Here, Uncle Tromp, open your hand.  Smiling indulgently Uncle Tromp held
out his huge paw, the back of it covered with coarse black curls, the
fingers thick as good farmer's sausages.

What have you here, Jong?  he demanded jovially, and then the smile
froze as Manfred spilled a cascade of glittering stones into his hand.

Diamonds, Uncle Tromp, Manfred whispered.  Enough to make you a rich
man.  Enough to buy you anything you need.  Where did you get these,
Jong?  Uncle Tromp's voice was calm and dispassionate.  How did you come
by these?  My pa, my father.  He put them into the lining of my jacket.
He said they were for me, to pay for my education and my upbringing to
pay for all the things that he wanted to do for me but had never been
able.  So!  said Uncle Tromp softly.  It is all true then, all of what
the newspapers say.  It isn't just English lies. Your father is a
brigand and a robber.  The huge hand clenched into a fist over the
glittering treasure.  And you were with him, jong.  You must have been
there when he did these terrible things that they accuse him of, that
they will try and condemn him for.  Were you with him, Jong?  Answer me!
His voice was rising like a storm wind, and now he let out a bellow. Did
you commit this great evil with him, Jong?  The other hand shot out and
seized the front of Manfred's shirt.  He pulled Manfred's face to within
inches of his own jutting beard.  Confess to me, jong.  Tell it all to
me, every last scrap of evil.  Were you with him when your father
attacked this Englishwoman and robbed her?  No! No!  Manfred shook his
head wildly.  It's not true.

My father wouldn't do a thing like that.  They were our diamonds. He
explained it to me.  He went to get back what was rightfully ours. 'Were
you with him when he did this thing, Jong?  Tell me the truth, Uncle
Tromp interrupted him with another roar.

Tell me, were you with him?  No, Uncle Tromp.  He went alone. And when
he came back he was hurt.  His hand, his wrist, Thank you, Lord!  Uncle
Tromp looked upwards with relief.  Forgive him for he knew not what he
did, O Lord.

He was led into sin by an evil man.  My father isn't evil, Manfred
protested.  He was cheated out of what was truly his. 'Silence, Jong.
Oom Tromp rose to his full height, splendid and awesome as a biblical
prophet.  Your words are an offence in the sight of God.  You will make
retribution here and now.  He dragged Manfred across the toolroom and
pushed him in front of the black iron anvil.

Thou shalt not steal.  That is the very word of God.  He placed one of
the diamonds in the centre of the anvil.  These stones are the
ill-begotten fruits of a terrible evil.  He reached to the rack beside
him and brought down a fourpound sledgehammer.  They must be destroyed.
He thrust the hammer into Manfred's hands.

Pray for forgiveness, Jong.  Beg the Lord for his charity and
forgiveness, and strike!  Manfred stood with the hammer in his hands,
holding it at high port across his chest, staring at the diamond on the
anvil.

Strike, Jong!  Break that cursed thing or be for ever cursed by it,
roared Uncle Tromp.  Strike, in the name of God.  Rid yourself of the
guilt and the shame.  Slowly Manfred raised the hammer on high and then
paused.  He turned and looked at the fierce old man.

Strike swiftly, roared Uncle Tromp.  Now!  And Manfred swung, the same
fluid, looping, overhead blow with which he chopped wood, and he grunted
with effort as the head of the hammer rang on the anvil.

Manfred lifted the hammer slowly.  The diamond was crushed to white
powder, finer than sugar, but still the vestiges of its fire and beauty
remained as each minute crystal caught and magnified the candlelight;
and when Uncle Tromp brushed the diamond dust from the anvil top with
his open hand it fell in a luminous rainbow cloud to the earthen floor.

Uncle Tromp laid another fiery stone upon the anvil, a fortune such as
few men could amass in ten years of unremitting labour, and stood back.

Strike!  he cried, and the hammer hissed as it turned in the air, and
the anvil rang like a great gong.  The precious dust was brushed aside
and another stone laid in its place.

Strike!  roared the Trumpet of God, and Manfred worked with the hammer,
grunting and sobbing in his throat with each fateful blow until at last
Uncle Tromp cried: Praised be the name of the Lord.  It is done!  And he
fell on his knees, dragging Manfred down with him, and side by side they
knelt before the anvil as though it were an altar and the white diamond
dust coated their knees as they prayed.

Oh Lord Jesus, look upon this act of penance with favour.

Thou who gave up Thy life for our redemption, forgive Thy young servant
whose ignorance and childishness has led him into grievous sin.  It was
after midnight and the candle was guttering in a puddle of its own wax
before Uncle Tromp rose from his knees and pulled Manfred up with him.

Go to your bed now, jong.  We have done all we can to save your soul for
the time being.  He watched while Manfred undressed and slipped under
the grey blanket.  Then he asked quietly: If I forbade you to go to
Windhoek in the morning, would you obey me?  My father, whispered
Manfred.

Answer me, Jong, would you obey me?  I don't know, Uncle Tromp, but I
don't think I could.  My pa, I You have so much to repent already.  It
would not do to add the sin of disobedience to your load. Therefore, I
place no such restriction upon you.  You must do what loyalty and your
conscience dictate.  But for your own sake and mine, when you reach
Windhoek, use the name of Bierman not De La Rey, Jong, do you hear me?
Judgement today!  I make a rule never to predict the outcome of any
piece of legislation or judicial process, Abe Abrahams announced from
his chair facing Centaine Courtney's desk.  However, today I break my
own rule.  I predict that the man will get the rope.  No question about
it.  How can you be that certain, Abe?  Centaine asked quietly, and Abe
looked at her with covert admiration for a moment before replying.  She
was wearing a simple lowwaisted dress which could justify its expense
only by its exquisite cut and the fineness of the silk jersey material.
It showed off her fashionable small bosom and boyishly slim hips as she
stood against the french windows.  The bright white African sunlight
behind her formed a nimbus about her head, and it took an effort to look
away from her and to concentrate on the burning cheroot which he held up
to enumerate his points.

Firstly, the small matter of guilt.  Nobody, not even the defence, has
made any serious attempt to suggest anything other than he is guilty as
all hell.  Guilty in intention and execution, guilty of planning it in
detail and carrying it out as planned, guilty of all manner of
aggravating circumstances, including attacking and robbing a military
remount depot, firing on the police and wounding one of them with a
grenade.  The defence has as good as admitted their only hope will be to
pull some arcane technical rabbit from the legal hat to impress His
Lordship, a hope which so far has not materialized. Centaine sighed. She
had spent two days in the witness stand.  Though she had remained calm
and unshakable in the face of the most rigorous and aggressive
cross-examination, she was exhausted by it, and haunted by a sense of
culpability, of having driven Lothar to that desperate criminal folly,
and now guilty of heading the pack that was pulling him down and would
soon rend him with all the vindictiveness that the law allowed.

Secondly, Abe waved the cheroot, the man's record.

During the war he was a traitor and a rebel with a price on his head, a
desperado with a long string of violent crimes to his discredit.  He was
pardoned for his wartime crimes, Centaine pointed out.  A full pardon
signed by the prime minister and the minister of justice.  Still, they
will count against him.  Abe wagged his head knowingly.  Even the pardon
will make it worse for him: biting the hand of mercy, flouting the
dignity of the law.

The judge won't like that, believe me.  Abe inspected the end of the
cheroot.  It was burning evenly with a firm inch of grey ash and he
nodded approvingly.  Thirdly, he went on, the man has shown no remorse,
not a jot nor a shred of it.  He has refused to tell anybody what he did
with the filthy loot.  M He broke off as he saw Centaine's distress at
the mention of the missing diamonds, and continued hurriedly: Fourthly,
the emotional aspects of the crime, attacking a lady of the highest
standing in the community.  He grinned suddenly.

A helpless female so unable to defend herself that she bit his arm off.
She frowned and he became serious again.  Your own courage and integrity
will count heavily against him, your dignity in the witness box.  You
have seen the newspapers: Joan of Arc and Florence Nightingale in one
person, the veiled suggestion that his attack upon you might have been
more dastardly and beastly than modesty will allow you to tell.  The
judge will want to reward you with the man's head on a platter.  She
looked at her wristwatch.  The court will reconvene in forty minutes. We
should go up the hill.  Abe stood up immediately. 'I love to watch the
law in operation, the dignified and measured pace of it, the trappings
and ritual of it, the slow grinding of evidence, the sorting of the
chaff from the wheat Not now, Abe, she stopped him as she adjusted her
hat in the mirror above the mantel, draping the black veil over one eye,
setting the small brim at an elegant angle and then picking up her
crocodile-skin handbag and tucking it under her arm.  Without any
further oratory from you, let's just go and see this awful thing
through.  They drove up the hill in Abe's Ford.  The press was waiting
for them in front of the courthouse, thrusting their cameras into the
open window of the Ford and blinding Centaine with bursting flash bulbs.
She shielded her eyes with her handbag but the moment she stepped out of
the automobile they were around her in a pack, yelling their questions.

Arhat will you feel if they hang him?  What about the diamonds? Can your
company survive without them, Mrs Courtney?  Do you think they'll do a
deal for the diamonds?  What are your feelings?  Abe ran interference
for her, barging his way through the crowd, dragging her by the wrist
into the comparative quiet of the courthouse.

Wait here for me, Abe, she ordered, and slipped away down the
passageway, weaving through the crowd that was waiting for the doors of
the main courtroom to open.  Heads turned to watch her and a buzz of
comment followed her down the passage, but she ignored it and turned the
corner towards the ladies toilets.  The office set aside for the defence
was directly opposite the ladies room and Centaine glanced around to
make sure she was unobserved, then turned to that door, tapped upon it
sharply, pushed it open and stepped inside.  She shut the door behind
her and, as the defence counsel looked up, she said: 'Excuse this
intrusion, gentlemen, but I must speak to you.  Abe was still waiting
where she had left him when Centaine returned only minutes later.

Colonel Malcomess is here, he told her, and all her other preoccupations
were forgotten for the moment.

Where is he?  she demanded eagerly.  She had not seen Blaine since the
second day of the trial when he had given his evidence in that ringing
tenor lilt that raised the fine hair on the back of Centaine's neck,
evidence that was all the more damning for its balanced unemotional
presentation.  The defence had tried to trip him on his description of
the shooting of the horses and the grenade attack, but had swiftly
sensed that he would provide little for their comfort and let him leave
the stand after a few futile minutes of cross-examination.  Since then
Centaine had looked for him unavailingly each day.

Where is he?  she repeated.

He has gone in already, Abe replied, and Centaine saw that while she had
been away the ushers had opened the double doors to the main courtroom.

Charlie is holding seats for us.  No need to join the scrum.  Abe took
her arm and eased her through the moving crowd.

The ushers recognized her and helped clear the aisle for her to reach
the seats in the third row that Abe's assistant was holding for them.

Centaine was covertly searching through the bustle for Blaine's tall
form, and she started when the press of bodies opened for a moment and
she saw him on the opposite side of the aisle.  He was searching also
and saw her a moment later; his reaction was as sharp as hers had been.
They stared at each other from a few yards that seemed to Centaine to be
an abyss wide as an ocean; neither of them smiled as they held each
other's eyes.  Then the crowd in the aisle intervened once again, and
she lost sight of him.  She sank down in the seat beside Abe and made a
little show of searching in her handbag to give herself time to recover
her composure.

Here he is, Abe exclaimed, and for a moment she thought he was referring
to Blaine.  Then she saw that the warders were bringing Lothar De La Rey
through from the cells.

Although she had seen him in the dock for every one of the last five
days, she was still not hardened to the change in him.  Today wore a
workman's shirt and dark slacks.  The clothes seemed too large for him,
and one sleeve was pinned up loosely over his stump.  He shuffled like
an old man and one of the warders had to help him up the steps into the
dock.

His hair was completely white now, even his thick dark eyebrows were
laced with silver.  He was impossibly thin and his skin had a greyish
lifeless look; it hung in little loose folds under his jaw and on his
scrawny neck.  His tan had faded to the yellowish colour of old putty.

As he sank onto the bench in the dock, he lifted his head and searched
the gallery of the court.  There was a pathetic anxiety in his
expression as he ran his eyes swiftly over the packed benches.  Then
Centaine saw the little flare of joy in his eyes and his masked smile as
he found what he was seeking.  She had watched this scene enacted every
morning for five days, and she twisted in her seat and looked up at the
gallery behind her.  But from where she sat the angle was wrong.

She could not see who or what had attracted Lothar's attention.

Silence in court, the usher called and there was a shuffling and
scrabbling as the body of the court came to its feet and judge Hawthorne
led his two assessors to their seats.

He was a silver-haired little man with a benign expression and lively
sparkling eyes behind his pince-nez.  He looked more like a schoolmaster
than the hanging judge that Abe said he was.

Neither he nor his assessors wore wigs or the colourful robes of the
English courts.  Roman Dutch law was more sombre in its trappings. They
wore simple black gowns and white swallow-tailed neckties, and the three
of them conferred quietly, inclining their heads together while the body
of the court settled down and the coughing and throatclearing and
foot-shuffling abated.  Then judge Hawthorne looked up and went through
the formality of convening the court and the charge sheet was read once
again.

Now an expectant hush fell over the courtroom.  The reporters leaned
forward with their notebooks poised; even the barristers in the front
row of benches were silenced and stilled.  Lothar was expressionless but
deathly pale as he watched the judge's face.

judge Hawthorne was concentrating on his notes, heightening the tension
with subtle showmanship until it was barely supportable.  Then he looked
up brightly and launched without preliminaries into the delivery of his
summation and judgement.

First he detailed each of the charges, beginning with the most serious:
three counts of attempted murder, two of assault with intent to inflict
grievous bodily harm, one of armed robbery.  There were twenty-six
charges in all and it took almost twenty minutes for the judge to cover
each of them.

The prosecution has presented all these charges in an orderly and
convincing manner.  The red-faced prosecutor preened at the compliment
and Centaine felt an unreasonable irritation at this petty vanity.

This court was particularly impressed with the evidence of the main
prosecution witnesses.  His Excellency the Administrator's testimony was
a great help to me and my assessors.  We were most fortunate in having a
witness of this calibre to relate the details of the pursuit and arrest
of the accused, from which arise some of the most serious charges in
this case.  The judge looked up from his notes directly at Blaine
Malcomess.  I wish to record the most favourable impression that Colonel
Malcomess made upon this court, and we have accepted his evidence
without reservation.  From where she was sitting Centaine could see the
back of Blaine's head.  The tips of his large ears turned pink as the
judge looked at him, and Centaine felt a rush of tenderness as she
noticed.  His embarrassment was somehow endearing and touching.

Then the judge looked at her.

The other prosecution witness who conducted herself impeccably and whose
evidence was unimpeachable, was Mrs Centaine Courtney.  The court is
fully aware of the great hardship with which Mrs Courtney has been
inflicted and the courage which she has displayed, not only in this
courtroom.  Once again, we were most fortunate to have the benefit of
her evidence in assisting us to reach our verdict., While the judge was
speaking, Lothar De La Rey turned his head and looked at Centaine
steadily.  Those pale accusing eyes disconcerted her and she dropped her
own gaze to the handbag in her lap to avoid them.

In contrast, the defence was able to call only one witness, and that was
the accused himself.  After due consideration, we are of the opinion
that much of the accused's evidence was unacceptable.  The witness's
attitude was at all times hostile and uncooperative.  In particular we
reject the witness's assertion that the offences were committed
singlehanded, and that he had no accomplices in their commission.  Here
the evidence of Colonel Malcomess, of Mrs Courtney and of the police
troopers is unequivocal and collaborative.  Lothar De La Rey turned his
head slowly in the judge's direction once more and stared at him with
that flat, hostile expression which had so antagonized judge Hawthorne
over the five long days of the trial, and the judge returned his gaze
levelly as he went on.

Thus we have considered all the facts and the evidence presented to us
and are unanimous in our verdict.  On all twenty-six charges we find the
accused, Lothar De La Rey, guilty as charged.

Lothar neither flinched nor blinked, but there was a concerted gasp from
the body of the court, followed immediately by a buzz of comment.  Three
of the reporters leapt up and scampered from the courtroom, and Abe
nodded smugly beside Centaine.

I told you, the rope, he murmured.  He will swing, for sure. The ushers
were attempting to restore order.  The judge came to their assistance.

He rapped his gavel sharply and raised his voice.  I will not hesitate
to have this court cleared, he warned, and once again a hush settled
over the courtroom.

Before passing sentence, I will listen to any submissions in mitigation
that the defence may wish to put to the bench.  judge Hawthorne inclined
his head towards the young barrister charged with the defence, who
immediately rose to his feet.

Lothar De La Rey was destitute and unable to afford his own defence.  Mr
Reginald Osinond had been appointed by the court to defend him.  Despite
his youth and inexperience, it was his first defence on a capital
charge, Osmond had thus far acquitted himself as well as could have been
expected, given the hopeless circumstances of his client's case.  His
cross-examination had been spirited and nimble, if ineffectual, and he
had not allowed the prosecution to make any gratuitous gains.

If it please my lord, I should like to call a witness to give evidence
in mitigation.  Come now, Mr Osmond, surely you don't intend to
introduce a witness at this stage?  Do you have precedents for this? The
judge frowned.

I respectfully commend your lordship to the matter of the Crown versus
Van der Spuy 1923 and to the Crown versus Alexander 1914.  The judge
conferred for a few moments with his assessors and then looked up with a
stagy sigh of exasperation.  Very well, Mr Osmond.  I am going to allow
you your witness.  Thank you, my lord.  Mr Osmond was so overcome with
his own success that he stuttered a little as he blurted eagerly: I call
Mrs Centaine de Thiry Courtney to the stand.  This time there was a
stunned silence.  Even judge Hawthorne fell back in his tall carved
chair before a buzz of surprise and delight and anticipation swept
through the court.  The press were standing to get a view of Centaine as
she rose and from the gallery a voice called: Put the noose around the
bastard's neck, luv.  Judge Hawthorne recovered'swiftly and his eyes
flashed behind his pince-nez as he glared up at the gallery, trying to
identify the wag.

I will not tolerate a further outburst.  There are severe penalties for
contempt of court, he snapped, and even the journalists sat down again
hurriedly and, chastened, applied themselves to their notepads.

The usher handed Centaine into the witness stand and then swore her in
while every man in the room, including those on the bench, watched, most
of them in open admiration, but a few, including Blaine and Abraham
Abrahams, with puzzlement and perturbation.

Mr Osmond stood to open his examination, his voice pitched low with
nervous respect.

Mrs Courtney, will you please tell the court how long you have known the
accused, he corrected himself hurriedly, for now Lothar De La Rey was no
longer merely accused, he had been convicted.  the prisoner.  I have
known Lothar De La Rey for nearly fourteen years., Centaine looked
across the room at the stooped grey figure in the dock.

Would you be good enough to describe, in your own words, the
circumstances of your first meeting, It was in 1919.  I was lost in the
desert.  I had been a castaway on the Skeleton Coast after the sinking
of the Protea Castle.  For a year and a half I had been wandering in the
Kalahari desert with a small group of San Bushmen., All of them knew the
story.  At the time it had been a sensation, but now Centaine's
narrative, related in her French accent, brought it all vividly to life.

She conjured up the desolation and misery, the fearful hardships and
loneliness that she had endured, and the room was deathly quiet. Even
judge Hawthorne was hunched down in his chair, supporting his chin on
his clenched fist, absolutely still as he listened.  They were all with
her as she struggled through the clinging sand of the Kalahari, dressed
in the skins of wild animals, her infant son on her hip, following the
tracks of a horse, a shod horse, the first sign of civilized man that
she had encountered in all those desperate months.

They chilled with her and shared her despair as the African night fell
across the desert and her chances of succour receded; they willed her
onwards, through the darkness, seeking the glow of a camp-fire far
ahead, then started in horror as she described the sinister shape, dark
with menace, that suddenly confronted her, and flinched as though they
also had heard the roar of a hungry lion close at hand.

Her audience gasped and stirred as she described her fight for her life
and the life of her infant; the way the circling lion drove her up into
the highest branches of a tall mopani and then climbed up towards her
like a cat after a sparrow.

Centaine described the sound of its hot panting breath in the darkness
and at last the shooting agony as the long yellow claws hooked into the
flesh of her leg and she was drawn inexorably from her perch.

She could not go on, and Mr Osmond prompted her gently.

Was it at this stage that Lothar De La Rey intervened?  Centaine roused
herself.  I'm sorry.  It all came back to me, Please, Mrs Courtney, do
not tax yourself.  judge Hawthorne rushed to her aid.  I will recess the
court if you need time, No, no, my lord.  You are very kind, but that
won't be necessary.  She squared her shoulders and faced them again.

Yes, that was when Lothar De La Rey came up.  He had been camped close
at hand, and was alerted by the roars of the animal.  He shot the lion
dead while it was in the act of savaging me.  He saved your life, Mrs
Courtney.  He saved me from a dreadful death, and he saved my child with
me.  Mr Osmond bowed his head in silence, letting the court savour the
full drama of the moment, then he asked gently: What happened after
that, madarn?  I was concussed by my fall from the tree; the wound in my
leg mortified.  I was unconscious for many days, unable to care for
myself or my son.  What was the prisoner's reaction to this?  He cared
for me.  He dressed my wounds.  Tended every need of mine and of my
child.  He saved your life a second time?  Yes. She nodded.  He saved me
once again.  Now, Mrs Courtney.  The years passed.  You became a wealthy
lady, a millionairess?  Centaine was silent, and Osmond went on.  Then
one day three years ago the prisoner approached you for financial
assistance for his fishing and canning enterprise.  Is that correct?  He
approached my company, Courtney Mining and Finance, for a loan, she
said, and Osmond led her through the series of events up to the time
that she had closed down Lothar's canning factory.

So, Mrs Courtney, would you say that Lothar De La Rey had reason to
believe that he had been unfairly treated, if not deliberately ruined by
your action?  Centaine hesitated.  My actions were at all times based on
sound business principles.  However, I would readily concede that from
Lothar De La Rey's standpoint, it could have seemed that my actions were
deliberate.  At the time, did he accuse you of attempting to destroy
him?  She looked down at her hands and whispered something.

I am sorry, Mrs Courtney.  I must ask you to repeat that.  And she
flared at him, her voice cracking with strain.  Yes, damn it.  He said
that I was doing it to destroy him.  Mr Osmond!  The judge sat up
straight, his expression I must insist that you treat your witness in a
more severe.

considerate fashion.  He sank back in his seat, clearly moved by
Centaine's recital, and then raised his voice again.  I will recess the
court for fifteen minutes to allow Mrs Courtney time to recover herself.
When they reconvened, Centaine entered the witness stand again and sat
quietly while the formalities were completed and Mr Osmond prepared to
continue his examination.

From the third row Blaine Malcomess smiled at her encouragingly, and she
knew that if she did not look away from him every single person in the
courtroom would be aware of her feelings.  She forced herself to break
contact with his eyes and instead looked up at the gallery above his
head.

It was an idle glance.  She had forgotten the way in which Lothar De La
Rey searched the gallery each morning, but now she was seeing it from
the same angle as he did from the dock.  And suddenly her eyes flicked
to the furthest corner of the gallery, drawn irresistibly by another set
of eyes, by the intensity of a glowering gaze that was fastened upon
her, and she started and then swayed in her seat, giddy with shock, for
she had stared once again into Lothar's eyes: Lothar's eyes as they had
been when first she met him, yellow as topaz, fierce and bright, with
dark brows arched over them, young eyes, unforgettable, unforgotten
eyes.  But the eyes were not set in Lothar's face, for Lothar sat across
the courtroom from her, bowed and broken and grey.  This fare was young,
strong and full of hatred, and she knew, she knew with a mother's sure
instinct.  She had never seen her younger son, at her insistence, he had
been taken away, wet from the womb, at the very moment of birth, and she
had turned her head away so as not to see his squirming naked body.  But
now she knew him, and it was as though the very core of her existence,
the womb which had contained him, ached at this glimpse of his face, and
she had to cover her mouth to prevent herself crying out with the pain
of it.

Mrs Courtney!  Mrs Courtney!  The judge was calling her, his tone
quickening with alarm, and she forced herself to turn her head towards
him.

Are you all right, Mrs Courtney?  Are you feeling well enough to
continue?  Thank you, my lord, I am quite well.  Her voice seemed to
come from a great distance, and it took all her willpower not to look
back at the youth in the gallery, at her son, Manfred.

Very well, Mr Osmond.  You may proceed.  It required an enormous effort
of will for Centaine to concentrate on the questions as Osmond led her
once more over the robbery and the struggle in the dry river-bed.

So then, Mrs Courtney, he did not lay a finger upon you until you
attempted to reach the shotgun?  No.  He did not touch me until then.
'You have already told us that you had the shotgun in your hand and were
attempting to reload the weapon.  That is correct.  Would you have used
the weapon if you had succeeded in reloading it?  Yes.  Can you tell us,
Mrs Courtney, would you have shot to kill?  I object, my lord!  The
prosecutor sprang angrily to his feet.  That question is hypothetical.
Mrs Courtney, you do not have to answer that question, if you do not
choose, judge Hawthorne told her.

I will answer.  Centaine sai c early.  Yes, I would have killed him.  Do
you think the prisoner knew that?  My lord, I object.  The witness
cannot possibly know.  Before the judge could rule, Centaine said
clearly, He knew me, he knew me well.  He knew I would kill him if I had
the chance.  The pent-up emotion of the courtroom exploded in ghoulish
relish and it was almost a minute before quiet could be restored.  in
the confusion Centaine looked up at the corner of the high gallery
again.  It had taken all her self-control not to do so before.

The corner seat was empty.  Manfred had gone, and she felt confused by
his desertion.  Osmond was questioning her again, and she turned to him
vaguely.

I'm sorry.  Will you repeat that, please?  I asked, Mrs Courtney, if the
prisoner's assault on you, as you stood there with the shotgun in your
hands intent on killing him My lord, I object.  The witness was intent
only on defending herself and her property, the prosecutor howled.

You'll have to rephrase that question, Mr Osmond.  Very well, my lord.
Mrs Courtney, was the force that the prisoner used against you
inconsistent with that needed to disarm you?  I'm sorry.  Centaine could
not concentrate.  She wanted to search the gallery again.  I don't
understand the question.  Did the prisoner use more force than that
necessary to disarm you and prevent you shooting him?  No.  He simply
pulled the shotgun away from me.  And later when you had bitten his
wrist.  When you had buried your teeth in his flesh, inflicting a wound
that later would result in the amputation of his arm, did he strike you
or inflict any other injury upon you in retaliation?  No. 'The pain must
have been intense, and yet he did not use undue force upon you?  No. She
shook her head.  He was, Centaine searched for the word, he was
strangely considerate, almost gentle!

I see.  And before he left you, did the prisoner make sure that you had
sufficient water for survival?  And did he give you advice concerning
your well-being?  He checked that I had sufficient spare water, and he
advised me to stay with the wrecked vehicle until I was rescued., Now,
Mrs Courtney, Osmond hesitated delicately.  There has been speculation
in the press that the prisoner might have made some form of indecent
assault- Centaine interrupted him furiously. 'That suggestion is
repugnant and totally false.  Thank you, madam.  I have only one more
question.  You knew the prisoner well.  You accompanied him while he was
hunting to provide meat for you and your child once he had rescued you.
You saw him shoot?  I did.  In your opinion, if the prisoner had wanted
to kill you or Colonel Malcomess, or any of the police officers pursuing
him, could he have done so? 'Lothar De La Rey is one of the finest
marksmen I have ever known.  He could have killed all of us on more than
one occasion.  I have no further questions, my lord.  judge Hawthorne
wrote at length on the notepad before him and then tapped his pencil
thoughtfully upon the desk for another few seconds before he looked up
at the prosecutor.

Do you wish to cross-examine the witness?  The prosecutor came to his
feet scowling sulkily.  I have no further questions for Mrs Courtney. He
sat down again, folded his arms and stared angrily at the revolving
punkah fan on the ceiling.

Mrs Courtney, the court is grateful to you for your further evidence.
You may now return to your seat.  Centaine was so intent on searching
the gallery for her son that she tripped on the steps at the foot of the
tiers of benches and both Blaine and Abe jumped up to help her.

Abe reached her first and Blaine sank back into his seat as Abe led
Centaine to hers.

Abe, she whispered urgently.  There was a lad in the gallery while I was
giving evidence.  Blond, around thirteen years old, though he looks more
like seventeen.  His name is Manfred, Manfred De La Rey.

Find him.  I want to speak to him.  Now?  Abe looked surprised.

Right now.  The submission in mitigation.  I'll miss it.  Go!

she snapped.  Find him.  And Abe jumped up, bowed to the bench and
hurried out of the courtroom just as Mr Reginald Osmond rose to his feet
once again.

Osmond spoke with passion and sincerity, using Centaine's evidence to
full advantage, repeating her exact words: "He saved me from a dreadful
death, and he saved my child with me." Osmond paused significantly and
then went on.

The prisoner believed that he deserved the gratitude and generosity of
Mrs Courtney.  He placed himself in her power by borrowing money from
her, and he came to believe mistakenly, but genuinely, that his trust in
her had been betrayed.  His eloquent plea for mercy went on for almost
half an hour, but Centaine found herself thinking of Manfred rather than
the plight of his father.  The look which the boy had levelled at her
from the gallery troubled her deeply.

The hatred in it had been a palpable thing and it resuscitated her sense
of guilt, a guilt which she believed she had buried so many years
before.

He will be alone now.  He will need help, she thought.  I have to find
him.  I have to try and make it up to him in some way.  She realized
then why she had so steadfastly denied the boy over all these years, why
she had thought of him only as Lothar's bastard', why she had gone to
extreme lengths to avoid any contact with him.  Her instinct had been
correct.

just a single glimpse of his face and all the defences which she had
built up so carefully came tumbling down, all the natural feelings of a
mother which she had buried so deeply were revived to overwhelm her.

Find him for me, Abe, she whispered, and then realized that Reginald
Osmond had completed his submission with a final plea: Lothar De La Rey
felt that he had been grievously wronged.  As a result, he committed a
series of crimes which were abhorrent and indefensible. However, my
lord, many of his actions prove that he was a decent and compassionate
man, caught up in stormy emotions and events too powerful for him to
resist.  His sentence must be severe.  Society demands that much.  But I
appeal to your lordship to show a little of the same Christian
compassion that Mrs Courtney has displayed here today, and to refrain
from visiting upon this hapless man, who has already lost one of his
limbs, the extreme penalty of the law.  He sat down in a silence that
lasted for many long seconds, Until judge Hawthorne looked up from the
reverie into which he had sunk.

Thank you, Mr Osmond.  This court will recess and reconvene at two
o'clock this afternoon, at which time we will impose sentence. Centaine
hurried from the courtroom, searching eagerly for Abe or for another
glimpse of her son.  She found Abe on the front steps of the courthouse,
in deep conversation with one of the police guards.  But he broke off
and came to her immediately.

Did you find him?  she demanded anxiously.

I'm sorry, Centaine.  No sign of anyone of that description.  I want the
boy found and brought to me, Abe.  Use as many men as you need.  I don't
care what it costs.  Search the town.  Do everything possible to find
him.  He must be staying somewhere.  All right, Centaine.  I'll get on
to it right away.  You say his name is Manfred De La Rey, then he will
be related to the prisoner?  His son, she said.

I see.  Abe looked at her thoughtfully.  May I ask why you Want him so
desperately, Centaine?  And what you are going to do with him when you
find him?  No, you may not ask.  Just find him., Why do I want him?  she
repeated Abe's question to herself wonderingly.  Why do I want him after
all these years And the answer was simple and self-evident.  Because he
is my son.

And what will I do with him if I find him?  He is poisoned against me.
He hates me.  I saw that in his eyes.  He does not know who I really am.
I saw that also.  So what will I do when I meet him face to face, and
she answered herself as simply: I don't know, I just do not know.  The
maximum penalty provided by law for the first three offences on the
prisoner's charge sheet is death by hanging, said judge Hawthorne.  The
prisoner has been found guilty of these and the further offences with
which he has been charged.  In the normal course of events this court
would have had no hesitation in inflicting that supreme penalty upon
him.  However, we have been given pause by the extraordinary evidence of
an extraordinary lady.  The submissions made voluntarily by Mrs Centaine
de Thiry Courtney are all the more remarkable for the fact that she has
suffered most grievously at the prisoner's hands, physically,
emotionally and materially, and also for the fact that her admissions
might be construed by small-minded and mean persons as invidious to Mrs
Courtney herself.

In twenty-three years service on the bench I have never been privileged
to witness such a noble and magnanimous performance in any courtroom,
and our own deliberations must, by necessity, be tempered by Mrs
Courtney's example.  judge Hawthorne bowed slightly towards where
Centaine sat, then took the pince-nez from his nose and looked at Lothar
De La Rey.

The prisoner will rise, he said.

Lothar De La Rey, you have been found guilty of all the various charges
brought against you by the Crown, and for purpose of sentence, these
will be taken as one.  It is, therefore, the sentence of this court that
you be imprisoned at hard labour for the rest of your natural life.  For
the first time since the beginning of the trial, Lothar De La Rey showed
emotion.  He recoiled from the judge's words. His face began to work,
his lips trembling, one eyelid twitched uncontrollably, and he lifted
his remaining hand, palm up, in appeal towards the dark-robed figure on
the bench.

Kill me, rather.  A wild heart-cry.  Hang me rather than lock me up like
an animal, The warders hurried to him, seized him from either side and
led him shaking and calling out piteously from the dock, while a hush of
sympathy held the whole room.  Even the judge was affected, his features
set and grim as he stood up and slowly led his assessors from the room.
Centaine remained sitting, staring at the empty dock as the subdued
crowd filed out of the double doors like mourners leaving a funeral,
Kill me, rather!  She knew that plea would stay with her for the rest of
her life.  She bowed her head and covered her eyes with her hands.  In
the eye of her mind she saw Lothar as he had been when she first met
him, hard and lean as one of the red Kalahari lions, with pale eyes that
looked to far horizons shaded blue by distance, a creature of those
great spaces washed with white sunlight.  And she thought of him now,
locked in a tiny cell, deprived for the rest of his life of the sun and
the desert wind.

Oh Lothar, she cried in the depths of her soul.  How could something
once so good and beautiful have ended like this?  We have destroyed each
other, and destroyed also the child that we conceived in that fine noon
of our love.  She opened her eyes again.  The courtroom had emptied and
she thought she was alone until she sensed a presence near her and she
turned quickly and Blaine Malcolmess was there.

Now I know how right it was to love you, he said softly.

He stood behind her, his head bowed over her, and she looked up at him
and felt the terrible regret and sorrow begin to lift.

Blaine took her hand that lay along the back of the bench and held it
between both of his.  I have been struggling with myself all these last
days since we parted, trying to find the strength never to see you
again.  I almost succeeded.  But you changed it all by what you did
today.  Honour and duty and all those other things no longer mean
anything to me when I look at you now.  You are part of me.  I have to
be with you.  When?  As soon as possible, he said.

Blaine, in my short life I have done so much damage to others, inflicted
so much cruelty and pain.  No more.  I also cannot live without you, but
nothing else must be destroyed by our love.  I want all of you, but I
will accept less, to protect your family.  It will be hard, perhaps
impossible, he warned her softly.

But I accept your conditions.  We must not inflict pain on others.  Yet
I want you so much I know, she whispered, and stood up to face him. Hold
me, Blaine, just for a moment.  Abe Abrahams was searching for Centaine
through the empty passages of the courthouse. He reached the double
doors of the courtroom and pushed one leaf open quietly.

Centaine and Blaine Malcomess stood in the aisle between the tiers of
oak benches.  They were in each other's arms, oblivious to anything
around them, and he stared for a moment without comprehension, then
softly closed the door again and stood guard before it, wracked by fear
and happiness for her.

You deserve love, he whispered.  Pray God, this man can give it to you.
Eden must have been like this, Centaine thought.  And Eve must have felt
the way I do today.  She drove slower than her usual frantic pace.
Although her heart cried out for haste, she denied it to make the
anticipation keener.

I have been without sight of him for five whole months, she whispered.
Five minutes longer will only make it sweeter when at last I am in his
arms again.  Despite Blaine's assurances and best intentions, the
conditions that Centaine had placed upon them had prevailed.

They had not been alone together since those stolen moments in the empty
courtroom.  During most of that time they had been separated by hundreds
of miles, Blaine shackled by his duties in Windhoek, Centaine at
Weltevreden, fighting desperately day and night for the survival of her
financial empire which was now in its death throes, stricken by the loss
of the diamond shipment, no part of which had ever een recovered .  In
her mind she compared it to the hunting arrow of O'wa, the little yellow
Bushman: a tiny reed, frail and feather-light, but tipped with virulent
poison which not the greatest game of the African veld could withstand.
It weakened and slowly paralysed the quarry, which first reeled and
swayed on its feet, then dropped and lay panting, unable to rise,
waiting for the cold lead of death to seep through the great veins and
arteries or for the swift mercy stroke of the hunter.

That is where I am now, down and paralysed, while the hunters close in
on me.  All these months she had fought with all her heart and all her
strength, but now she was tired, tired to every last fibre of muscle and
mind, sick tired to her bones.  She looked up at the rearview mirror
above her head and hardly recognized the image that stared back at her
with stricken eyes, dark with the heavy mascara of fatigue and despair.
Her cheekbones seemed to gleam through the pale skin, and there were
chiselled lines of exhaustion at the corners of her mouth.

But today I will set despair aside.  I won't think about it, again, not
for a minute.  Instead I will think of Blaine and this magical display
that nature has laid out for me.  She had left Weltevreden at dawn and
was now one hundred and twenty miles north of Cape Town, driving through
the vast treeless plains of Namaqualand, heading down to where the green
Benguela current caressed Africa's rocky western shores, but she was not
yet in sight of the ocean.

The rains had come late this year, delaying the spring explosion of
growth, so that although it was only weeks before Christmas, the veld
was ablaze with its royal show of colour.  For most of the year these
plains were dun and windswept, sparsely populated and uninviting.

But now the undulating expanses were clothed in an unbroken mantel so
bright and vividly coloured that it confused and tricked the eye.  Wild
blooms of fifty different varieties and as many hues covered the earth
in banks and flocks and stands, massed together with their own kind so
that they resembled a divine patchwork quilt, so bright that they seemed
to burn with an incandescent light that was reflected from the very
heavens and the eye ached with so much colour.

Closer at hand the earthen road, rough and winding, was the only
reference point in this splendid chaos, and even it was soon obliterated
by flowers.  The twin tracks were separated by a dense growth of wild
blooms that filled the middle ridge between them and swept the underside
of the old Ford with a soft rushing sound like the water of a mountain
stream as Centaine drove slowly up another gentle undulation and stopped
abruptly at the top.  She switched off the engine.

The ocean lay before her, its green expanse flecked with brilliant white
and lapped by this other ocean of blazing blooms.  Through the open
window the sea wind ruffled Centaine's hair and caused the fields of
wild flowers to nod and sway in unison, keeping time to the swells of
ocean beyond.

She felt the care and terrible strain of those last months recede in the
face of so much vibrant beauty, and she laughed spontaneously at the joy
of it and shaded her eyes from the glare of orange and red and
sulphur-yellow flower banks and searched the seashore eagerly.

It's a shack, Blaine had warned her in his last letter.  Two rooms and
no running water, an earth latrine and an open hearth.  But I have spent
my holidays there since a child and I love it.  I have shared it with
nobody else since my father's death.  I go there alone whenever I can.
You will be the first.  And he had drawn a map of the road to it.

She picked it out immediately, standing on the edge of the ocean,
perched upon the horn of rock where the shallow bay turned.  The
thatched roof had blackened with age but the thick adobe walls were
whitewashed as bright as the foam that curled out on the green sea, and
a wisp of smoke smeared towards her from the chimney.

Beyond the building she saw movement and picked out a tiny human shape
on the rocks at the edge of the sea, and suddenly she was desperate with
haste.

The engine would not fire, though she cranked the starter until the
battery faltered.

Merde!  And double merde!  It was an old vehicle, used and abused by one
of her under-managers on the estate until she had commandeered it to
replace the ruined Daimler, and now its failure was an unwelcome
reminder of her financial straits, so different from when she had driven
a new daffodilyellow Daimler every year.

She let off the handbrake and let the Ford trundle down the slope,
gathering speed until she jumped the clutch and the engine started with
a shudder and roar of blue smoke and she flew down the hill and parked
behind the whitewashed shack.

She ran out onto the black rocks above the water and the swaying beds of
black-stemmed kelp that danced to the scend of the sea, and she waved
and shouted, her voice puny on the wind and the rumble of the ocean but
he looked up and saw her and came at a run, jumping from rock to
slippery wet rock.

He wore only a pair of khaki shorts, and he carried a bunch of live rock
lobsters in one hand.  His hair had grown since last she had seen him.
It was damp and curly with sea salt, and he was laughing, his mouth open
and his big teeth flashing whitely and he had grown a mustache.  She
wasn't sure whether she liked that, but the thought was lost in the
tumult of her own emotions and she ran to meet him and flung herself
against his bare chest.

Oh Blaine, she sobbed.  Oh God, how I've missed you.  Then she lifted
her mouth to him.  His face was wet with seaspray and it was salty on
his lips.  His mustache prickled.

She had been right first time, she didn't like it, but then he lifted
her high and was running with her towards the shack, and she held him
tightly with both arms around his neck, bouncing in his arms, jolted by
his long strides, and laughing breathlessly with her own fierce need of
him.

Blaine sat on a three-legged stool in front of the open hearth on which
a fire of milkwood burned and perfumed the air with its fragrant
incense.  Centaine stood before him, working up a lather in the china
shaving mug with his badger-hair brush, while Blaine complained.

It took five months to grow, and I was so proud of it.  He twirled the
ends of his mustache for the last time.  It's so dashing, don't you
think?  No, said Centaine firmly.  I do not.  I'd prefer to be kissed by
a porcupine.  She bent over him and lathered both sides of his upper lip
with a thick foam, and then stood back and surveyed her handiwork with a
critical eye.

Perched on the stool Blaine was still stark naked from their
love-making, and suddenly Centaine grinned wickedly.

Before he could fathom her intentions or move to protect himself, she
had stepped forward again and daubed his most intimate extremity with a
white blob of lather from the brush.

He looked down at himself, appalled.  Hi-in too?  he demanded.

That would be cutting off my nose to spite my own face, she giggled.  Or
something like that.  Then she put her head on one side and gave her
considered opinion.  The little devil looks a lot better with a mustache
than you do.  Careful with that adjective Iittle", he admonished her,
and reached for his towel.  Come along, old fellow, you don't have to
put up with this disrespect.  He wrapped the towel around his waist and
Centaine nodded.

That's better.  Now I can concentrate on the job without distraction,
and she took up the cut-throat razor that lay ready on the table-top and
stropped it on the leather with quick practised strokes.

Where did you learn that?  I am beginning to feel jealous.  My papa, she
explained.  I always trimmed his moustaches.  Now hold still!  She took
the tip of his large nose between thumb and forefinger and lifted it.

For what we are about to receive, Blaine's voice was muffled by her grip
on his nose.  He closed his eyes and winced as the steel rustled over
his upper lip, and a few moments later Centaine stepped back and wiped
the lather and hair from the blade, laid the razor aside and came back
to dry his upper lip and then stroke the smooth skin with her fingertip.

It looks better; it feels better, she told him.  But there is still the
final test.  And she kissed him.

Hmmm!  She murmured her approval, and then still without breaking the
kiss she wriggled round and sat on his lap.

It went on for a long time until she broke away and looked down. The
towel had slipped.  I say, here comes the little moustached devil again,
obviously spoiling for trouble.  She reached down and gently wiped away
the last traces of lather from the tip.

You see!  Even he looks a lot better cleanshavem, Blaine stood up with
her in his arms.  I think it is time, woman, that you learned the hard
way that you can get away with just so much and then we must establish
who is the boss around here.  And he carried her to the bunk against the
far wall.

Much later they sat side by side cross-legged on the bunk with a single
brightly coloured Basuto blanket draped over their bare shoulders,
leaning together and watching the fire shadows flicker along the rough
plastered walls, listening to the wind off the ocean soughing around the
eaves of the thatched roof in the darkness outside, cupping their hands
around steaming mugs of fish soup.

One of my specialities, Blaine had boasted, and it was thick with chunks
of fresh galjoen fish and lobster that he had caught that day.
'Wonderful powers of rejuvenation for those suffering from
over-exertion.  Blaine recharged the mugs twice, for they were both
ravenous, and then Centaine went to the fire, her naked body gleaming in
the ruddy glow of the firelight, to bring him a smouldering twig to
light his cheroot.  When it was burning evenly, she climbed under the
blanket again and snuggled against him.

Did you ever find that young boy you were looking for?  he asked lazily.
Abe Abrahams came to me for help, you know.  He was unaware how the
question had affected her, for she controlled the reflex stiffening of
her body and simply shook her head.  No.  He disappeared.  He was Lothar
De La Rey's son.  I deduced that.  Yes, she agreed.  I was worried about
him.  He must have been deserted and alone after his father's sentence.
I'll keep looking for him, Blaine promised.  And let you know if
anything comes up.  He stroked her hair.  You are a kind person, he
murmured.  There was no reason why you should concern yourself with the
boy.  They were silent again, but reference to the outside world had
broken the spell and started a trail of thought that was unpleasant but
had to be followed to the end.

How is Isabella?  she asked, and felt the muscles of his chest tighten
and swell beneath her cheek, but he inhaled a puff from the cheroot
before he answered.

Her condition is deteriorating.  Atrophy of the nerves of her lower
body.  Ulceration.  She has been in Groote Schuur hospital since Monday.
The ulcers at the base of her spine will not heal.  I'm sorry, Blaine.
That is how I have managed to get away these few days.

The girls are with their grandmother.  That makes me feel awful. I would
feel worse if I couldn't see you, he replied.

Blaine, we must keep to our resolution.  We must never hurt her or the
girls.  He was silent again, then abruptly he flicked the stub of the
cheroot across the room into the fire.  It looks as though she will have
to go to England.  There is a surgeon at Guy's Hospital who has
performed miracles.  When?  Her heart felt like a cannonball in her
chest, suffocating her with its weight.

Before Christmas.  It depends on the tests they are doing now. 'You will
have to go with her, of course.  That would mean resigning as
administrator and damaging my chances, he broke off; he had never
discussed his ambitions with her.

Your chances of a place in a future cabinet and possibly one day the
premiership, she finished for him.

He stirred, taking her face between his hands and turning it gently so
he could look into her eyes.  You knew?  he asked, and Centaine nodded.

Do you think that cruel of me?  he asked.  That I could let Isabella go
on her own, for my selfish ambitions?  No, she said seriously.  I know
about ambition.  I offered, he said, while unquiet shadows clouded the
green of his eyes.  Isabella would not accept it. She insisted that I
stay here.  He laid her head back against his chest and stroked the hair
back from her temple.  She is an extraordinary person, such courage. The
pain is almost unceasing now.  She cannot sleep without laudanum, and
always more pain and more laudanum..  It makes me feel so guilty,
Blaine, but no matter what, I am glad for the opportunity to be with
you.  I am taking nothing from her.  But that was not true, and she knew
it.  She lay awake long after he was asleep.

She lay with her ear pressed to his chest and listened to his heart and
the slow filling and emptying of his lungs.

When she woke he was dressed in the old pair of khaki shorts and taking
down a bamboo fishing rod with an old Scarborough reel from the rack on
the wall above the hearth.

Breakfast in twenty minutes, he promised, leaving her cuddled down in
the bunk, but he was back before then carrying a gleaming gunmetal and
silver fish almost as long as his arm.  He arranged it on a grid over
the embers and then came to her and pulled the blanket off.

Swim!  he grinned sadistically, and she screamed.

You are crazy.  It's freezing!  I'll die of pneumonia.  She protested as
wildly all the way down to the deep rock-lined pool in which be dunked
her.

The water was clear as air and so cold that when they clambered out
their bodies glowed bright pink all over and her nipples were standing
out as hard and dark as ripe olives.

But the icy water had honed their appetites and they sprinkled lemon
juice on the hot succulent white flesh of the Galjoen and wolfed ic down
with chunks of brown bread and salty yellow farm butter.

Satiated at last they sat back and Blaine looked at her.  She wore only
one of his navy blue roll-necked fisherman's jerseys but the hem reached
almost to her knees.  She had piled her damp unruly tangle of hair on
top of her head and tied it there with a yellow ribbon.

We could go for a walk, he suggested.  Or, She thought about that for a
few seconds and then decided.

I rather think I'll settle for the or.  Your wish, madam, is my command,
he replied courteously, and stood over her to lift the heavy jersey off
over her head.

In the middle of the morning he lay flat on his back on the bunk while
Centaine was propped on an elbow above him, tickling his lips and closed
eyelids with a feather that she had plucked from the seam of one of the
pillows.

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 Hlani 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, I 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 stern 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 marvelous 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 the 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 urunanageable, 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 oldfashioned manners drummed into him by
his mother and his school, and remaining at all times difficult to
fathom.

a 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
marvelous 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
rnake 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 -hat 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.

Blaine had seen Shasa Courtney had promise, and now in thought of him
the will to win and his bitter anger at the 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.  I n 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 chateau 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 there were well over two hundred from out of town.

guests, She had chartered a special train to bring down the upcountry
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'dftance 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 widebrimmed 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 cbeek 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.

I had to chat to the boy, Blaine excused himself.  Are you feeling
better?  Thank you.  The laudanum is working now.  She smiled up at him,
so tragic and brave that he stooped once more and kissed her forehead.
Then as he straightened he glanced guiltily in Centaine's direction,
hoping that she had not noticed that spontaneous gesture of tenderness;
but she was watching him, and she looked away quickly.

Papa, the teams are coming out.  Tara tugged him down into his seat.
Come on, Weltevreden, she shrieked, and Blaine could concentrate on the
match rather than his own dilemma.

Changing sides Shasa led his team past the grandstand, cantering easily
down the sideline, standing in the stirrups to adjust the chinstrap of
his cap and searching for Blaine in the stand.  They caught each other's
eye and Shasa grinned as Blaine gave him a laconic thumbs up.  Then he
dropped back into the saddle and swung Tiger Shark around to face the
Natal team as they rode out in their white breeches and caps, black
boots and black short-sleeved shirts, looking tough and expert.

Max Theunissen frowned as he realized that Shasa had changed sides, and
he circled out and flashed a hand signal to his number two on the far
side of the field and then came back around again just as the umpire
trotted to the centre and dropped the white bamboo root ball.

The last chukka opened with a confused scrappy m86e, with hacked shots
missing and the ball trampled and rolling under the ponies hooves.  Then
it popped clear and Bunty leaned out of the saddle and hit his first
good shot of the match, a high forehand drive that lofted well up-field
and his pony went after it instinctively, bearing Bunty along on the
line whether he liked it or not.

It was Bunty's shot, so he had the right of way and his pony came in
perfectly to set him up, but Max Theunissen wheeled Nemesis and the
black stallion was at full gallop within two strides.  Max's father had
not paid 11,000 for nothing, and the big powerful horse came down on
Bunty like an avalanche.

Bunty looked over his shoulder and Shasa saw him blanch.

Your line, Bunty, Shasa screamed to encourage him.  Stay on it! But at
the same time he saw Max deliberately press his toe into the back of the
stallion's gleaming shoulder, and Nemesis altered his angle.  It was a
dangerous and menacing attack, and if Bunty had stood up to it, it would
have been a blatant foul.  But these tactics of terror worked yet again
and Bunty sawed his pony's head frantically and broke away, giving up
the line.  Max swept onto it triumphantly, gathering himself and leaning
out of the saddle, lifting his stick high in the foreswing and
concentrating all his attention on the white ball that jumped and kicked
over the turf directly ahead of him, setting up to take it on the
backhand.

He had overlooked Shasa on his nearside, and was unprepared for the
blazing burst of speed with which Tiger Shark responded to the drive of
Shasa's heels as he came in at a legitimate angle for the ride off.

Neither of them had struck the ball last; it was therefore fair ball,
each of them with equal right of way.  But as they came together, both
horses at full gallop, Tiger Shark just a head behind the big black
stallion, Shasa gave him the toe signal behind the shoulder and Tiger
Shark responded joyously.  He changed angle sharply and barged with all
the power of his great misshapen shoulders.  The collision was so
unexpectedly violent that Shasa was almost unseated himself and was
thrown up onto Tiger Shark's neck.

However, Blaine had been right, it was Max Theunissen's weak side, the
one he had so assiduously protected all along, and Tiger Shark had timed
the exploitation of his weakness perfectly.  Nemesis reeled away and
stumbled, his head going down between his front knees, and Max
Theunissen was airborne, thrown high over his pony's head, somersaulting
in mid-air but with the reins still in his hands, and for a terrible
panicky moment Shasa knew he had killed him.

Then with an agility born of fear and natural athletic ability, Max
switched around like a cat in the air and landed awkwardly, heavily but
on his feet on the turf.  For a few moments he was still too terrified
and shocked to speak, and Shasa hauled himself back into the saddle and
got Tiger Shark in hand as the whistles of the two umpires shrilled from
both sides of the field.  Max Theunissen started to scream hysterically.

He fouled me, a deliberate foul.  He crossed my line.  I could have been
killed.  Max was white and shaking, droplets of spittle flying from his
quivering lips, and he was jumping up and down on the same spot like a
petulant child, wild with frustration and fright.

The umpires were conferring in the middle of the field, and Shasa had an
impulse to try and influence them with his own protestations of
innocence, but good sense prevailed and he turned Tiger Shark back with
all the dignity he could assemble, looking straight ahead, ignoring the
roar of the crowd, but sensing that the roar was more an appreciation of
justice, a bully caught in his own snare, than the expression of
outraged sense of sportsmanship.

The umpires could not agree.  They turned and trotted across the field
to speak to the referee who came down from the grandstand to meet them.

Good shot, Shas!  Bunty rode up to him.  That will give the beggar
something to write home about.  They might send me off, Bunty, Shasa
replied.

You never crossed his line, Bunty defended him hotly.  I saw it all.,
But the fire in Shasa's blood was cooling and suddenly he thought what
his grandfather would say, and even more unpleasant how his mother would
react if he were sent off in front of her guests, bringing disgrace to
their house.  He looked nervously across at the stands, but it was too
far to make out the expression on Blaine Malcomess face. High in the
stand he saw the yellow fleck of his mother's hat, and to his fevered
eye it seemed to be set at a disapproving angle, but now the umpires
were cantering back, one of them coming directly towards Shasa and
reining in before him, his expression severe.

Mr Courtney!  Sir!  Shasa straightened in the saddle, ready for the
worst.

This is a formal warning, sir.  You are officially warned for dangerous
play.  I acknowledge your warning, sir.  Shasa tried to match his
expression to the forbidding countenance of the umpire, but his heart
was singing.  He had got away with it.

Play on, Mr Courtney, said the umpire, and just before he turned away,
Shasa saw the twinkle in his eye.

There were three minutes left in the final chukka as Max rode down to
drive the ball deeply into their territory with his penalty shot; but
there to pick it up was Shasa's number three and he hit a wobbling,
bouncing ball out to the left field.

Good oh, Stuffs!  Shasa was delighted.  Thus far Stuffs Goodman had done
nothing to distinguish himself.  The relentless Natal attack had
dispirited him, and more than once he had been the victim of Max
Theunissen's robust play.  This was the first time Stuffs had completed
a pass and Shasa moved in to receive, then took the ball up field.

But Bunty was hanging back again, and without support Shasa's attack was
ridden down by a phalanx of Natal riders and the game reverted to an
untidy m06e while the seconds ticked away.  The umpire blew up the m86e
and gave the shot to Natal.

Dashed if we aren't going to hold them to a draw.  Bunty looked at his
wristwatch and called across to Shasa as they fell back to receive the
next Natal shot.

Draw isn't ruddy good enough, Shasa retorted furiously.

We've got to win.  it was bravado, of course.  They hadn't seriously
attacked the Natal goal in five chukkas.  But Bunty's limited ambitions
angered Shasa, and Max Theunissen had definitely faded since his spill,
no sign of his old dash and fire, and twice he had fallen back avoiding
contact when Shasa brought the ball up field, leaving it to his backs to
challenge.

Only half a minute left.  Despite Shasals boast, Bunty looked delighted
at the term upon their sufferings, but at that moment the ball came to
him hard and straight.  He missed it and before he could turn the Natal
attack swept past him and there was only Stuffs Goodman between them and
the goal.  As Shasa raced back to try and support him, his heart sank.
it was all over.  it was too much to hope that Stuffs could hit two
clean shots in succession, but despite Shasa's misgivings, Stuffs came
in, right into the heart of rified but game, and the Natal attack,
white-faced and ter made a wild swing at the ball which never came
within two feet of it.  But his pony was a crafty old stager, clearly
exasperated at the standard of his rider's play, and he trampled down
the ball, and kicked it clear, right into Bunty's line.  Bunty hit
another corker, and chased it up field; but the Natal right back was
there, driving in furiously, and the two of them ended up in another
untidy waltz, swinging around each other, leaning out and hacking
wildly, typical with sufjunior league play, neither man strong enough,
or with sufficient experience to get another attack under way.  The
muddle gave both teams time to reorganize themselves andthe the opposing
captains were howling at their men for the ball.  Let me have it, Bunty!
on the left side of the field Shasa was standing in the stirrups, and
Tiger Shark was prancing sideways with nervous anticipation, watching
the ball with eyes rolling until the whites showed.

Here, Digger, here!  howled Max, lying back deep but ready to race up
when the ball came clear.

Then Bunty hit his third and last scorcher of the day, right in the
sweet spot of the hardwood mallet head, but the ball flew only a few
feet before it hit the fore hoof of the Natal back's pony and rebounded
under Bunty's stirrups, kicking back into the Weltevreden deep field,
right out in the open.

Shasa had anticipated almost instantly and sent Tiger Shark away. He
tapped the ball to change its direction and then wheeled Tiger Shark so
sharply that the pony went down on his haunches.

Ha!  Shasa put his heels in and the pony launched himself into full
stride with the ball dribbling along just ahead of him.

Shasa leaned out, concentrating all his attention on the little white
ball as it popped and flicked erratically, and he got the head of his
mallet to it again, putting top spin on the ball so that it came under
control and flew low across the turf, aimed at the Natal goal two
hundred yards ahead.

Tiger Shark followed it beautifully, easing out to precisely the right
distance for Shasa to get a full shot at it.  Plum Pudding couldn't have
judged it better, and Shasa hit it again with a neat click of wood on
wood, and the ball skipped obediently ahead of him. He looked up over
the ball and there was the Natal goal dead ahead, only one hundred and
fifty yards away, and a kind of savage joy filled him as he realized
that instead of merely holding Natal to the draw, they really did have a
chance to win.

Hal he called to Tiger Shark, Hal And the big animal plunged forward
under him.  At the same moment Max Theunissen on Nemesis wheeled onto
the line ahead and rode directly at him.

Down the throat, was the term that described this most hazardous of all
interception angles.  On two powerful and swift animals they were
charging each other down the throat; the roar from the grandstand faded
into a horrified hush, and the spectators rose to their feet in unison.

Shasa had only once before witnessed a head-on collision between two big
horses at full gallop.  That had been at the trials before the
Argentinian test match the previous year.

He had been in the top row of the stand and he had heard the bones break
clearly from there.  One of the riders had burst his spleen and died
later in hospital; the other had broken both legs.  Afterwards they had
shot the ponies as they lay in the middle of the field.

My line!  he yelled at Max Theunissen as they swept towards each other.

Damn you, Courtney!  Max yelled back defiantly.  He had regained his
courage, and he glared at Shasa over his pony's head; Shasa saw in his
eyes that he was going to force the collision and he shifted slightly in
the saddle.  Tiger Shark felt it and flinched.  They were going to give
way, and then without warning Shasa was overwhelmed by the berserker's
deadly passion.

Even from the stand Blaine Malcomess sensed it.  He recognized that what
had seized Shasa was not ordinary courage, rather it was a type of
madness, the same madness that had once driven Blaine himself out into
no man's land, alone with only a grenade in his hand, straight into the
winking red eyes of the German Maxim guns.

He saw Shasa check Tiger Shark's turn and instead force him the opposite
way, heading him directly at the black stallion, moving across the line
of the ball in a deliberate challenge.  it seemed that time slowed for
Shasa.  His vision was suddenly concentrated to brilliant clarity; he
could see the wet pink mucous membrane deep in the flared nostrils of
the great stallion in front of him; he could define each minute bubble
in the froth that foamed from the corners of his mouth around the
snaffle irons, each stiff black bristle in the charcoal velvet of his
muzzle, each blood vessel in the lacework that covered the bloodshot
corners of the stalhon's eyes and each individual lash that surrounded
them.

Shasa looked over the black stallion's head into Max's face.  It was
contorted with fury.  He saw the tiny blisters of sweat on Max's chin,
and the gap between his square white incisors as his lips were drawn
back in a rictus of determination, and he looked into Max's brown eyes
and held their gaze.

It was too late, Shasa judged; they had left it too late to avoid the
collision, and as he thought it he saw the sudden shock in Max's face,
saw his lips crumple and the flesh of his cheeks frost over with terror
and watched him jerk back in the saddle and drag Nemesis head around,
pulling him off the line, breaking away right, only just in time.

Shasa swept past him, brushing him aside almost contemptuously, and with
the passion still upon him he rose in the stirrups and struck the ball
hard and true, driving it between the centre of the posts.

Blaine was still on his feet in the stand as the teams came in, and
Shasa was flushed with triumph looking up at him for approbation, and
though Blaine gave him only an airy wave and friendly smile, he was
almost as exultant as Shasa.

By God, the lad has the makings, he told himself.  He really has got it.
And he sat down again beside Isabella.  She saw his expression; she knew
him so well.  She knew how desperately he had wanted a son, and the
reason for his interest in the boy.  It made her feel inadequate and
useless and angry.

That child is reckless and irresponsible.  She could not help herself,
even though she knew that her censure would have the opposite effect on
Blaine.  He doesn't give a fig for anybody else, but then the Courtneys
have always been like that.  Some people call it guts, Blaine murmured.

An ugly word for an ugly trait.  She knew she was being shrewish; she
knew there was a limit to his forbearance, but she could not help this
self-destructive urge to try and hurt him.  He is like his mother - and
she saw the anger snap in Blaine's eyes as he rose to his feet, cutting
her off.

I'll see if I can get you some lunch, my dear.  He strode away, and she
wanted to cry after him: I'm sorry, it was only because I love you so!

Isabella ate no red meat, for it seemed to aggravate her condition, so
Blaine was contemplating the display of prawns and crayfish, clams and
mussels and fish which formed the centrepiece of the buffet, a pyramid
taller than his head, such a veritable work of art that it seemed
sacrilegious to make the first inroad upon it.  He was not alone in his
reluctance; the display was surrounded by an admiring cluster of guests
exclaiming with delight and admiration so that Blaine was not aware of
Centaine's approach until she spoke just behind his shoulder.

Whatever did you say to my son, Colonel, that turned him into a savage?
And he turned quickly, trying to cover the guilty delight that he felt
at her closeness.  Oh yes, I saw you talking to him before the last
chukka, she went on.

Man talk, I'm afraid, not for tender ears.  She laughed softly.
'Whatever it was, it worked.  Thank you, Blaine.  No need for that, the
lad did it himself.  That last goal was as plucky an effort as I've seen
in a long time.  He is going to be good, very good indeed.  Do you know
what I thought as I watched it?  she asked softly, and he shook his
head, leaning closer for her reply.

I thought Berlin, she told him softly, and he was perplexed for a
moment.  Then it dawned upon him.

Berlin 1936.  The Olympic Games, and he laughed.  She must be joking.
From junior league to the seniors was the distance to the moon and the
stars.  Then he saw her expression and he stopped laughing.

You really are serious!  He stared at her.

Of course, I won't be able to afford to keep his ponies.

But his grandfather loves to watch him play.  He will help, and if he
had the advice and encouragement of a really top man, She gave a
graceful little shrug, and it was a moment before he could recover from
his astonishment sufficiently to reply.

You never fail to amaze me.  Is there nothing you won't reach for?  Then
he saw the sudden, sly, lascivious gleam in her eye, and he went on
hurriedly, I withdraw the question, madam.  For a moment they looked at
each other with the veil stripped aside, their eyes and their love naked
for anyone to see.  Then Centaine broke the contact.

General Smuts has been asking for you.  She changed direction again in
that disconcerting mercurial fashion of hers.  We are sitting under the
oaks behind the stand.  Why don't you and your wife join us there?  She
turned away from him and the throng of her guests opened before her.

Blaine wheeled Isabella slowly across the smooth carpet of mown Kikuyu
grass towards the group under the oaks.

The weather had blessed Centaine's tournament; the sky was heron's-egg
blue with a silver burst of cloud hanging stationary over the peak of
Muizenberg and another thick mattress laid over the massif of Table
Mountain that standing cloud known as the table cloth'.

It was windy, of course.  It was always windy in December, but
Weltevreden was tucked into a protected corner of the Constantia valley;
passing overhead, the southeaster froufroued the top leaves of the oaks,
barely flickering at the women's skirts, but alleviating what would have
been oppressive heat, and sweetening the air to earn its nickname the
Cape doctor'.

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 longstemmed 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 cheri, 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, cheri?  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 chateau.  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 percent 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 cooperation, 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 JT; 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 It 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 chateau 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 marvelous 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.

The pilot of the blue aircraft climbed out of the left-hand door, a
stocky bald-headed figure, and Centaine glared at him venomously. She
had not known that Jock Murphy included flying among his assorted
accomplishments, but she determined that he would rue this prank.  She
had always done all she could to discourage Shasals interest in aircraft
and flying, but it had been difficult.  Shasa kept a photograph of his
father in flying gear beside his bed and a replica of the SE5a fighter
plane hung from the ceiling of his bedroom; over the last few years his
questions about flying and his father's military feats had become more
insistent and purposeful.  She should have been warned by this, of
course, but she had been so preoccupied, and it had never occurred to
her that he might take to flying without consulting her.

Looking back, she realized that she had been deliberately ignoring the
possibility, deliberately avoiding thinking about it, and now the shock
was all the more unpleasant.

With the silver cup in his hands Shasa ended his short acceptance speech
with the specific assurance: Finally, ladies and gentlemen, you might
have thought that Jock Murphy was flying the Puss-Moth.  He was not!

He wasn't even touching the controls, were you?  He looked across at the
bald-headed instructor, who shook his head in collaboration, 'There you
are!  Shasa gloated.  You see, I have decided that I am going to be a
flyer, just like my dad., Centaine did not join in the clapping and
laughter.

As suddenly as they had arrived and transformed the life of Weltevreden
the hundreds of guests had gone, leaving only the ruined turf of the
polo ground, the litter and the mountains of empty champagne bottles and
piles Of dirty linen in the laundry.  Centaine was left also with a
feeling of anticlimax.  Her last flourish had been made, the last shot
in her arsenal fired, and on the Saturday the mail ship docked in Table
Bay and brought them an invited but unwelcome visitor.

Damn fellow reminds me of an undertaker standing in for a tax collector,
Sir Garry buffed and took General Smuts off to the gunroom which he
always used as a study when he visited Weltevreden.  The two of them
were immersed in the initial consultations for the biography and did not
appear again until lunchtime.

The visitor came down to breakfast just as Centaine and Shasa arrived
back from their early morning gallop, rosycheeked and starving.

He was examining the hallmarks on the silver cutlery as they entered the
dining-room arm in arm through the double doors, laughing at one of
Shasa's sallies.  However, the mood was instantly shattered, and
Centaine bit her lip and sobered when she saw him.

May I introduce my son, Michael Shasa Courtney.  Shasa, this is Mr
Davenport from London.  How do you do, sir.  Welcome to Weltevreden.
Davenport looked at Shasa with the same appraising stare with which he
had been examining the silver.

It means "well satisfied", Shasa explained.  From the Dutch, you know,
Weltevreden.  Mr Davenport is from Sotheby's, Shasa. Centaine filled the
awkward pause.  He has come to advise me on some of our paintings and
furniture.  Oh, jolly good, Shasa enthused. 'Have you seen this, sir?
Shasa pointed out the landscape in soft oils above the side board.  It's
my mother's favourite.  Painted on the estate where she was born.  Mort
Homme near Arras.  Davenport adjusted his steel-framed spectacles and
leaned over the sideboard for a closer view so that his considerable
stomach drooped into the salver of fried eggs and left a greasy splotch
on his waistcoat.

Signed 1875, he said sombrely.  His best period.  It's by a chap called
Sisley, Shasa volunteered helpfully, Alfred Sisley.  He is quite a
well-known artist, isn't he, Mater?  Cheri, I think Mr Davenport knows
who Alfred Sisley is.  But Davenport wasn't listening.

We could get five hundred pounds, he muttered, and pulled a notebook
from his inner pocket to make an entry.

A fine dusting of dandruff descended from his lank locks at the movement
and sprinkled the shoulders of his dark suit.

Five hundred?  Centaine demanded unhappily.  I paid considerably more
than that for it.  She poured a cup of coffee, she had never taken to
these huge English breakfasts, and carried it to the head of the table.

That is as maybe, Mrs Courtney.  We had a better example of his work on
auction only last month, "It Ecluded Marly", and it didn't reach the
very modest reserve we placed on it.

Buyer's market, I'm afraid, very much a buyer's market.  Oh don't worry,
sir.  Shasa piled eggs onto his plate and crowned them with a wreath of
crispy bacon.  It's not for sale.  My mother would never sell it, would
you, Mater?  Davenport ignored him and carried his own plate to the
vacant seat beside Centaine.

Now, the Van Gogh in the front salon is another matter, he told her as
he launched into the smoked kippers with more enthusiasm than he had
shown for anything since his arrival.  With his mouth full he read from
his notebook.

Green and violet wheatfield; furrows lead the eye to golden haloes
around the huge orb of the rising sun high in the picture.  He closed
the book.  There is quite a vogue for Van Gogh in America, even in this
soft market.  Can't tell whether it will last, of course, can't stand
him myself, but I will have the picture photographed and send copies to
a dozen of our most important clients in the United States. I think we
can bank on four to five thousand pounds.  Shasa had laid down his knife
and fork and was staring from Davenport to his mother with a puzzled and
troubled expression.

I think we should talk about this later, Mr Davenport, Centaine
intervened hurriedly.  I have set aside the rest of the day for you. But
let us enjoy our breakfast now., The rest of the meal passed in silence,
but when Shasa pushed his plate away, half finished, Centaine rose with
him.  Where are you going, cheri?  The stables.  The blacksmith is
reshoeing two of my ponies.  I'll walk down with you. They took the path
along the bottom wall of the Huguenot vineyard, where Centaine's best
wine grapes were grown, and around the back of the old slave quarters.
Both of them were silent, Shasa waiting for her to speak, and Centaine
trying to find the words to tell him.  Of course, there was no gentle
way of saying it and she had delayed too long already.

Her procrastination had only made it more difficult for her now.

At the gate of the stable yard she took his arm and turned him into the
plantation.  That man, she began, and then broke off and started again.
Sotheby's is the foremost firm of auctioneers in the world.  They
specialize in works of art.  I know, he smiled condescendingly.  I'm not
a complete ignoramus, Mater.  She drew him down onto the oak bench that
stood at the edge of the spring.  Sweet crystal water burbled out of a
tiny rocky grotto and splashed down amongst ferns and green moss-covered
boulders into the brick-lined pool at their feet.

The trout in the pool, as long and as thick as Shasa's forearm, came
nosing up to their feet, swirling hopefully for their feed.

Shasa, cheri.  He has come here to sell Weltevreden for us.  She said it
clearly and loudly, and immediately the enormity of it came down upon
her with the brutal force of a falling oak tree, and she sat numb and
broken beside him, feeling herself shrinking and shrivelling, giving in
at last to despair.

You mean the paintings?  Shasa asked carefully.

Not just the paintings, the furniture, the carpets and the silver.  She
had to stop to draw breath and control the trembring of her lips.  The
chateau, the estate, your ponies, everything.  He was staring at her,
unable to comprehend it.  He had lived at Weltevreden since he was four
years old, as far back as he could remember.

Shasa, we have lost it all.  I have tried since the robbery to hold it
together.  I was not able to do it.  It's gone, Shasa.

We are selling Weltevreden to pay off our debts.  There will be nothing
left after that.  Her voice was cracking again, and she touched her lips
to still them before she went on.  We aren't rich any more, Shasa.  It's
all gone.  We are ruined, completely ruined.  She stared at him, waiting
for him to revile her, waiting for him to break as she was about to
break, but instead he reached for her and after a moment the stiffness
went out of her shoulders and she sagged against him and clung to him
for comfort.

We are poor, Shasa, and she sensed him struggling to take it all in,
trying to find words to express his confused feelings.

You know, Mater, he said at last, I know some poor people.  Some of the
boys at school, their parents are pretty hard-up, and they don't seem to
mind too much.  Most of them are jolly good chaps.  It might not be too
bad, once we get used to being poor., I'll never get used to it, she
whispered fiercely.  I will hate it, every moment of it.

And so will I, he said as fiercely.  If only I were old enough, if only
I could help you., She left Shasa at the blacksmith's shop and returned
slowly, stopping often to chat with her coloured folk, the women coming
to the stable doors of the cottages with their babies on their hips to
greet her, the men straightening up from their labours, grinning with
pleasure for they had become her family; to part with them would be more
painful even than giving up her carefully accumulated treasures.  At the
corner of the vineyard she climbed over the stone wall and wandered
between the rows of lovingly pruned vines on which the bunches of new
grapes already hung weightily, green and hard as musket balls, floury
with bloom, and she reached up and took them in her cupped hands as
though it was a gesture of farewell and found that she was weeping.

She had been able to contain her tears while she had been with Shasa,
but now she was alone, her grief and desolation overwhelmed her and she
stood amongst her vines and wept.

Despair drained her and eroded her resolve.  She had worked so hard, had
been alone so long, and now in ultimate failure she was tired, so tired
that her bones ached and she knew that she did not have the strength to
start all over again.  She knew she was beaten and that from now on her
LIFE would be a sad and sorry thing, a grinding daily struggle to
maintain her pride while she was reduced to the position of a mendicant.
For dearly as she loved Garry Courtney, it would be his charity on which
she must rely from now on and her whole being quailed at the prospect.
For the very first time in her life she could find neither the will nor
the courage to go on.

It would be so good to lie down and close her eyes; a strong desire came
upon her, the longing for peace and silence.

I wish it was all over.  That there was nothing, no more striving and
worrying and hoping.  The longing for peace became irresistible, filled
her soul, obsessed her so that as she left the vineyard and entered the
lane she quickened her step.  It will be like sleeping, sleeping with no
dreams.  She saw herself lying on a satin pillow, eyes closed, tranquil
and calm.

She was still in breeches and riding-boots, so she could lengthen her
stride.  As she crossed the lawns she was running, and she flung open
the french doors to her study and, panting wildly, ran to her desk and
tore open the drawer.

The pistols had been a gift from Sir Garry.  They were in a fitted case
of royal blue pigskin with her name engraved on a brass plaque on the
lid.  They were a matched pair, hand-made by Beretta of Italy for a
lady, engraved with exquisite gold inlay and the mother-of-pearl butts
were set with small diamonds from the H'ani Mine.

She selected one of the weapons and broke it open.  The magazine was
loaded, and she snapped it closed and cocked the slide.  Her hands were
steady and her breathing had eased.

She felt very calm and detached as she lifted the pistol, placed the
muzzle to her temple and took up the slack in the trigger with her
forefinger.

She seemed to be standing outside herself, looking on almost without
emotion other than a faint remorse at the waste and a gentle sense of
pity for herself.

Poor Centaine, she thought.  What an awful way for it all to end.  And
she looked across the room at the gilt-framed mirror.  There were tall
vases set on each side of the glass filled with fresh long-stemmed
yellow roses from the gardens, so that her image was framed within
blooms as though she were laid out in her coffin and her face was pale
as death.

I look like a corpse.  She said it aloud, and at the words her longing
for oblivion changed instantly to a sickening self-disgust. She lowered
the pistol and stared at her image in the mirror, and saw the hot coals
of anger begin to burn in her cheeks.

No, merde!  she almost shrieked at herself.  You don't get out of it
that easily.  She opened the pistol and spilled the brass-cased
cartridges onto the carpet, threw the weapon onto the blotter and strode
from the room.

The coloured maids heard the heels of her riding-boots cracking on the
marbel treads of the circular staircase and lined up at the door to her
suite, smiling happily and bobbing their curtseys.

Lily, you lazy child, haven't you run my bath yet?  Centaine demanded,
and the two maids rolled their eyes at each other.  Then scampered to
the bathroom in a convincing pantomime of obedience and duty while the
pretty little second maid followed Centaine to her dressing-room picking
up the clothing that she deliberately dropped on the floor as she went.

Gladys, you go and make sure Lily runs it deep and hot, she ordered, and
the two of them were standing expectantly beside the huge marble tub as
Centaine came through in a yellow silk robe and tested the water with
one finger.

Lily, do you want to make soup out of me?  she demanded, and Lily
grinned happily.  The water was exactly the right temperature and
Centaine's question was acknowledgement of that, a private joke between
them.  Lily had the bath crystals ready and sprinkled a careful measure
on the steaming water.

Here, give it to me, Centaine ordered, and emptied half the jar into the
bath.  No more half measures.  Centaine watched the bubbles foam up over
the rim of the tub and slide onto the marble floor with a perverse
satisfaction, and the two maids dissolved into giggles at this craziness
and fled from the room as Centaine threw off the robe and, gasping with
the exquisite agony of the heat, settled chin deep in the foaming water.
As she lay there, the image of the pearl-handled pistol reformed in her
mind but she drove it forcefully away.

One thing you have never been, Centaine Courtney, is a coward, she told
herself; and when she returned to her dressing-room she selected a dress
of gay summer colours and she was smiling as she came down the stairs.

Davenport and Cyril Slaine were waiting for her.

This is going to take a long time, gentlemen.  Let us begin. Every
single item in the huge mansion had to be numbered and described, the
value estimated, the more important pieces photographed and everything
entered laboriously in the draft catalogue.  All this had to be
completed before Davenport went back to England on the mail boat in ten
days time.  He would return in three months to conduct the actual sale.

When the time came for Davenport to leave, Centaine surprised them all
when she announced her intention of accompanying him around the mountain
to the mail ship dock, a duty which would normally have fallen to Cyril.

The sailing of the mail ship was one of the exciting events of the Cape
Town social calendar, and the liner swarmed with passengers and the
dozens of guests who had come to wish them bon voyage.

At the first class entry port Centaine checked the passenger list and
found the entry under M': Malcomess, Mrs 1.  Cabin A 16

f Miss T.  Cabin A 17

Malcomess, Miss M.  Cabin A 17

Blaine's family was sailing as planned.  By agreement she had not seen
him since the last day of the polo tournament, and surreptitiously she
searched for him now through the smoking saloons and lounges of the
liner's first class section.

She could not find him and realized that he was probably in Isabella's
suite.  The idea of their intimate seclusion galled her and she wanted
desperately to go up to Cabin A 16 on the boat deck on the pretext of
saying farewell to Isabella, but really to prevent Blaine being alone
with her for another minute.  Instead she sat in the main lounge and
watched Mr Davenport demolishing pink gins, while she smiled and nodded
at her acquaintances and exchanged banalities with those friends who
paraded through the liner's public cabins determined to see and be seen.

She noted with grim satisfaction the warmth and respect of the greetings
and attentions showered upon her.  It was clear that the wild
extravagance of the polo tournament had served its purpose and allayed
suspicions of her financial straits.  As yet no rumours had been set
free to ravage her position and reputation.

That would change soon, she realized, and the thought made her angry in
advance.  She deliberately snubbed one of the Cape's most determined
aspiring hostesses, publicly refusing her obsequious invitation and
noting sardonically how the small cruelty increased the woman's respect.
But all the time that she was playing these complicated social games,
Centaine was gazing over their heads, looking for Blaine.

The liner's siren blared the final warning and the ship's officers,
resplendent in white tropical rig, passed amongst them with the polite
instruction: This vessel is sailing in fifteen minutes. Will all those
who are not passengers kindly go ashore immediately. Centaine shook
hands with Mr Davenport and joined the procession down the steep gangway
to the dockside.  There she fingered in the jovial press of visitors,
staring up the liner's tall side and trying to pick out Isabella or her
daughters from the passengers who lined the rail of the boat deck.

Gaily coloured paper streamers fluttered in the southeaster as they were
thrown down from the high decks and seized by eager hands on the
quayside, joining the vessel to land with a myriad frail umbilical
cords, and suddenly Centaine recognized Blaine's eldest daughter.  At
this distance Tara was looking very grown-up and pretty in a dark dress
and with her hair fashionably bobbed.  Beside her, her sister had stuck
her head through the railings and was furiously waving a pink
handkerchief at someone on the dock below.

Centaine shaded her eyes and made out the figure in the wheelchair
behind the two girls.  Isabella was sitting with her face in shadow, and
to Centaine she seemed suddenly to be the final harbinger of tragedy, an
inimical force sent to plague her and deny her happiness.

O God, how I wish that she were easy to hate, she whispered, and her
eyes followed the direction in which the two children were waving and
she began to edge her way through the crowd.

Then she saw him.  He had climbed up onto the carriage of one of the
giant loading cranes.  He was dressed in a creamcoloured tropical suit
with his green and blue regimental tie and a wide-brimmed white Panama
had which he had taken from his head and was waving at his daughters
high above him.  The southeaster had tumbled his dark hair onto his
forehead, and his teeth were very big and white against the dark
mahogany of his tanned face.

Centaine withdrew into the crowd, from where she could watch him
secretly.

He is the one thing I will not lose.  The thought gave her comfort.  I
will always have him, after Weltevreden and the H'ani have been taken
away.  And then suddenly a hideous doubt assailed her.  Is that truly
so?  She tried to close her mind to it, but the doubt slipped through.
Does he love me, or does he love what I am?  Will he still love me when
I am just an ordinary woman, without wealth, without position, with
nothing but another man's child?  And the doubt filled her head with
darkness and sickened her physically, so that when Blaine lifted his
fingers to his lips and blew a kiss up

towards the slim, pale, blanket-draped figure in the wheel

chair her jealousy struck again with gale force, and she stared at
Blaine's face, torturing herself with his expression of affection and
concern for his wife, feeling herself totally excluded and superfluous.

Slowly the gap between the liner and the quay opened.

The ship's band on the promenade deck struck up.  God be with you till
we meet again'; the bright paper streamers parted one by one and floated
down, twisting and turning, falling like her ill-fated dreams and hopes
to lie sodden and disintegrating in the murky waters of the harbour. The
ship's sirens boomed farewell, and the steam tugs bustled in to take
charge and work her out through the narrow entrance of the breakwater.
Under her own steam the huge white vessel gathered speed; a bow wave
curled at her forefoot and she turned majestically into the north-west
to clear Robben Island.

Around Centaine the crowds were drifting away, and within minutes she
was alone on the dockside.  Above her Blaine still stood on the carriage
of the crane, shading his eyes with the Panama hat, staring out across
Table Bay for a last glimpse of the tall ship.  There was no laughter
now, no smile upon that wide mouth that she loved so dearly, He was
supporting such a burden of sorrow that perforce she shared it with him,
and it blended with her own doubts until the weight of it was unbearable
and she wanted to turn and run from it.  Then suddenly he lowered the
hat and turned and looked down at her.

She felt guilty that she had spied upon him in this unguarded and
private moment, and his own expression hardened into something that she
could not fathom.  Was it resentment or something worse?  She never knew
for the moment passed.  He jumped down from the carriage, landing
lightly and gracefully for such a big man, and came slowly to where she
waited in the shade of the crane, settling the hat back on his head and
shading his eyes with the brim so that she could not be certain what
they contained; and she was afraid as she had never been before as he
stood before her.

When can we be alone?  he asked quietly.  For I cannot wait another
minute longer to be with you.  All her fears, all her doubts, fell away
and left her feeling bright and vibrant as a young girl again, almost
light-headed with happiness.

He loves me still, her heart sang.  He will always love me. General
fames Barry Munnik Hertzog came out to Weltevreden in a closed car which
bore no mark or insignia of his high office.  He was an old comrade in
arms of Jan Christian Smuts.  Both of them had fought with great
distinction against the British during the South African War, and they
had both taken a part in the peace negotiations at Vereeniging that
ended that conflict.  After that they had served together on the
national convention that led to the Union of South Africa, and they had
both been in the first cabinet of Louis Botha's government.

Since then their ways had diverged, Hertzog taking the narrow view with
his South Africa first doctrine while Jan Smuts was the international
statesman who had masterminded the formation of the British Commonwealth
and had taken a leading part in the birth of the League of Nations.

Hertzog was militantly Afrikaner, and had secured for Afrikaans equal
rights with English as an official language.

His Two Streams'policy opposed the absorption of his own Volk into a
greater South Africa, and in 1931 he had forced Britain to recognize in
the Statute of Westminster the equality of the dominions of the empire,
including the right of secession from the Commonwealth.

Tall and austere in appearance, he cut a formidable figure as he strode
into the library of Weltevreden which Centaine had placed indefinitely
at their disposal, and Jan Smuts rose from his seat at the long
green-baize-covered table and came to meet him.

So!  Hertzog snorted as he shook hands.  We may not have as much time
for discussion and manoeuvre as we had hoped.  General Smuts glanced
down the table at Blaine Malcomess and Deneys Reitz, his confidants and
two of his nominees for the new cabinet, but none of them spoke while
Hertzog and Nicolaas Havenga, the Nationalist minister of finance,
settled themselves on the opposite side of the long table. At seventeen
years of age Havenga had ridden with Hertzog on commando against the
British, acting as his secretary, and since then they had been
inseparable.  Havenga had held his present cabinet rank since Hertzog's
Nationalists had come to power in 1924.

Are we safe here?  he asked now, glancing suspiciously at the double
brass-bound mahogany doors at the far end of the library and then
sweeping his gaze around the shelves which rose to the ornately
plastered ceiling and were filled with Centaine's collection of books,
all bound in Morocco leather and embossed with gold leaf.

Quite safe, Smuts assured him.  We may speak openly without the least
fear of being overheard.  I give you my personal assurance. Havenga
looked at his master for further assurance and when the prime minister
nodded he spoke with apparent reluctance.

Tielman Roos has resigned from the Appellate Division, he announced, and
sat back in his seat.  It was unnecessary for him to elaborate.  Tielman
Roos was one of the country's best known and most colourful characters.
The Lion of the North was his nickname and he had been one of Hertzog's
most loyal supporters.  When the Nationalists came to power, he had been
minister of justice and deputy premier.

It had seemed that he was destined to be Hertzog's successor, the heir
apparent, but then failing health and disagreement over the issue of
South Africa's adherence to the gold standard had intervened.  He had
retired from politics and accepted an appointment to the Appellate
Division of the Supreme Court.

Health?  Jan Smuts asked.

No, the gold standard, Havenga said gravely.  He intends

coming out against our remaining upon the standard.

His influence is enormous, Blaine exclaimed.

We cannot let him throw doubt upon our policies, Hertzog agreed. 'A
declaration from Roos now could be disastrous.  It must be our first
priority to agree upon our joint policy on gold.  We must be in a
position either to oppose or pre-empt his position.  It is vitally
important that we offer a united front.  He looked directly at Smuts.

I agree, Smuts answered.  We must not allow our new coalition to be
discredited before we have even come into existence.  This is a crisis,
Havenga interjected.  We must handle it as such.  May we have your
views, Ou Baas?  You know my views, Smuts told them.  You will recall
that I urged you to follow Great Britain's example when she went off the
gold standard.  I don't wish to throw that in your faces now, but I
haven't altered my views since then.  Please go over your reasons again,
Ou Baas.  At the time I predicted that there would be a flight from the
South African gold pound into sterling.  Bad money always drives out
good money, and I was right.  That happened, Smuts stated simply, and
the men opposite looked uncomfortable.  The resulting loss of capital
has crippled our industry and sent tens of thousands of our workers to
swell the ranks of the unemployed.  There are millions of unemployed in
Britain herself, Havenga pointed out irritably.

Our refusal to go off gold aggravated unemployment.  It has endangered
our gold-mining industry.  It has sent prices for our diamonds and wool
crashing.  It has deepened the depression to this tragic level where we
now find ourselves.  if we go off the gold standard at this late stage,
what will be the benefits to the country? 'First and by far the most
important, it will rejuvenate our gold-mining industry.  If the South
African pound falls to parity with sterling, and that is what should
happen immediately, it will mean that the mines will receive seven
pounds for an ounce of gold instead of the present four.  Almost double.
The mines that have closed down will re-open.  The others will expand.
New mines will open providing work for tens of thousands, whites and
blacks, and capital will flow back into this country.  It will be the
turning point.  We will be back on the road to prosperity.  The
arguments for and against were thrown back and forth, Blaine and Reitz
supporting the old general, and gradually the two men opposite retreated
before their logic until a little after noon Barry Hertzog said
suddenly: The timing.  There will be pandemonium in the stock exchange.
There are only three trading days before Christmas.  We must delay any
announcement until then, do it only when the exchange is closed.  The
atmosphere in the library seemed palpable.

With Hertzog's statement, Blaine realized that Smuts had finally carried
the argument.  South Africa would be off gold before the stock exchange
re-opened in the new year.  He felt a marvelous sense of elation, of
achievement.  The first act of this new coalition was to set a term to
the country's protracted economic agony, a promise of return to
prosperity and hope.

I still have sufficient influence with Tielman to prevail upon him to
delay his announcement until after the markets close.  Hertzog was still
speaking, but it was only the details that remained to be agreed upon
and that evening, as Blaine shook hands with the others in front of the
white gables of Weltevreden and went to where his Ford was parked
beneath the oaks, he was filled with a sense of destiny.

it was this that had attracted him into the political arena, this
knowledge that he could help to change the world.  For Blaine this was
the ultimate use of power, to wield it like a bright sword against the
demons that plagued his people and his land.

I have become a part of history, he thought, and the elation stayed with
him as he drove out through the magnificent Anreith gates of
Weltevreden, the last in the small convoy of vehicles.

Deliberately he let the prime minister's car, followed by the Plymouth
that Deneys Reitz was driving, pull even further ahead and then
disappear into the bends that snaked up Wynberg Hill.  Only then he
pulled off onto the verge and sat for a few minutes with the engine
idling, watching the rearview mirror to make certain that he was not
observed.

Then he put the Ford in gear again and swung a U-turn across the road.
He turned off the main road before he reached the Anreith gates, into a
lane that skirted the boundary of Weltevreden, and within minutes he was
once more on Centaine's land, coming in through one of the back lanes,
hidden from the chateau and the main buildings by a plantation of pines.

He parked the Ford amongst the trees and set off along the path,
breaking into a run as he saw the whitewashed walls of the cottage ahead
of him gleaming in the golden rays of the setting sun.  It was exactly
as she had described to him.

He paused in the doorway.  Centaine had not heard him.

She was kneeling before the open hearth, blowing on the smoky flames
that were rising from the pile of pinecones she had set as kindling for
the fire.  For a while he watched her from the doorway, delighted to be
able to observe her while she was still unaware of him.

She had removed her shoes and the soles of her bare feet were pink and
smooth, her ankles slim, her calves firm and strong from riding and
walking, the backs of her knees dimpled.  He had never noticed that
before and the dimples touched him.  He was moved by the deep tenderness
that until now he had felt only for his own daughters, and he made a
small sound in his throat.

Centaine turned, springing to her feet the instant she saw him. 'I
thought you weren't coming.  She rushed to him, holding up her face to
him, her eyes shining, and then after a long time she broke off the kiss
and still in his arms studied his face.

You are tired, she said.

it has been a long day.  Come.  Holding his hand she led him to the
chair beside the hearth.  Before he sat, she slipped the jacket off his
shoulders and stood on tiptoe to loosen his necktie.

I've always wanted to do that for you, she murmured, and hung his jacket
in the small yellow-wood cupboard before she went to the centre table
and poured whisky into a tumbler, squirted soda onto it from the siphon
and brought it to him.

Is that right?  she asked anxiously, and he sipped and nodded.

Perfect.  He looked around the cottage, taking in the bunches of cut
flowers in the vases, the gleam of new wax on the floors and simple
solid furniture.

Very nice, he said.

I worked all day to have it ready for you.  Centaine looked up from the
cheroot that she was preparing.  Anna used to live here, until she
married Sir Garry.  Nobody else has used it since then. Nobody comes
here.  It's our place now, Blaine.  She brought the cheroot to him, lit
a taper in the fire and held it for him until it was burning evenly.
Then she placed one of the leather cushions at his feet and settled upon
it, leaning her folded arms on his knee and watching his face in the
light of the flames.

How long can you stay?  Well, he looked thoughtful.  How long do you
want me?  An hour?  Two?  Longer?  and Centaine squirmed with pleasure
and clasped his knees tightly.

The whole night, she gloated.  The whole glorious night!  She had
brought down a basket from the kitchen at Weltevreden.  They dined on
cold roast beef and turkey and drank the wines from her own vineyards.
Afterwards she peeled the big yellow Hanepoort grapes and popped them
into his mouth one at a time, kissing his lips lightly between each
morsel.

The grapes are sweet, he smiled, but I prefer the kisses. 'Fortunately,
sir, there is no shortage of either.  Centaine brewed coffee on the open
hearth and they drank it sprawled together on the rug in front of the
fire, watching the flames, neither of them speaking, but Blaine stroked
the fine dark hairs at her temples and at the nape of her neck with his
fingertips until slowly the tranquil mood hardened and he ran his
fingers down her spine and she trembled and rose to her feet.

Where are you going?  he demanded.

Finish your cheroot, she told him.  Then come and find out. When he
followed her into the small bedroom she was sitting in the centre of the
low bed.

He had never seen her in a nightdress before.  It was of pale lemon
satin and the lace at the neck and cuffs was the colour of old ivory
that glowed in the candlelight.

You are beautiful, he said.

You make me feel beautiful, she said gravely, and held out both hands to
him.

Tonight their loving, in contrast to the other urgent wildly driven
nights, was measured and slow, almost stately.  She had not realized
that he had learned so much about her body and its special needs. Calmly
and skilfully he ministered to them and her trust in him was complete;
gently he swept away her last reservations and bore her beyond the sense
of self, his body deep in hers and she enfolding him and blendmg with
him so that their very blood seemed to mingle and his pulse beat in time
to her heart.  it was his breath that filled her lungs, his thoughts
that gleamed and glimmered through her brain, and she heard her own
words echo in his eardrums: I love you, my darling, oh God, how I love
you.  And his voice replied, crying through the cavern of her own
throat, his voice upon her lips, I love you.  I love you.  And they were
one.

He woke before her and the suribirds were twittering in the bright
orange-coloured blooms of the tacoma shrubs outside the cottage window.

A beam of sunlight had found a chink in the curtains and it cut through
the air above his head like the blade of a golden rapier.

Slowly, very slowly, so as not to disturb her, he turned his head and
studied her face.  She had thrown aside her pillow and her cheek was
pressed to the mattress, her lips almost touching his shoulder, one arm
thrown out over his chest.

Her eyes were closed, and there was a delicate pattern of blue veins
beneath the soft translucent skin of the lids.  Her breathing was so
gentle that for a moment he was alarmed, then she frowned softly in her
sleep and his alarm gave way to concern as he saw the tiny arrowheads of
strain and worry that had been chiselled at the corners of her eyes and
mouth during these last months.

My poor darling.  His lips formed the words without sound, and slowly
the splendid mood of the previous night washed away like sand before the
incoming tide of harsh reality.

My poor brave darling.  He had not known grief like this since he stood
beside his father's open grave.  if only there was something I could do
to help you, now in this time of your need.  And as he sai it the
thought occurred to him, and he started so violently that Centaine felt
it and rolled away from him in her sleep, frowning again, the corner of
her eyelid twitching, and muttered something that he could not
understand and then was still.

Blaine lay rigid beside her, every muscle in his body under stress, his
fists clenched at his sides, his jaws biting down hard, appalled at
himself, angry and frightened that he had even been capable of thinking
that thought.  His eyes were wide open now.  He stared at the bright
coin of sunlight on the opposite wall but did not see it, for he was a
man on the torturer's rack, the rack of a terrible temptation.

Honour, the words blazed in his mind, honour and duty.  He groaned
silently as on the other side of his brain another word burned as
fiercely: love'.

The woman who lay beside him had set no price upon her love.  She had
made no terms, no bargains, but had simply given without asking in
return.  Rather than demanding she had given him quittance; it was she
who had insisted that no other person should be hurt by their happiness.
Freely she had heaped upon him all the sweets of her love without asking
the smallest price, not the gold band and vows of marriage, not even
promises or assurances, and he had offered nothing. Until this moment
there had been nothing for him to give her in repayment.

on the other hand he had been singled out by a great and good man who
had placed unquestioning trust in him.

Honour and duty on one hand, love on the other.  This time there was no
escape from the lash of his conscience.  VVho would he betray, the man
he revered or the woman he loved?

He could not lie still another moment and stealthily he lifted the
sheet.  Centaine's eyelids fluttered; she made a little mewling sound
and then settled deeper into sleep.

The previous evening she had laid out a new razor and toothbrush on the
washstand in the bathroom for him, and this little thoughtfulness goaded
him further.  The agony of indecision scourged him as he shaved and
dressed.

He tiptoed back into the bedroom and stood beside the bed.

I could walk away, he thought.  She will never know of my treachery. And
then he wondered at his choice of word.

Was it treachery to keep intact his honour, to cleave to his duty?

He forced the thought aside and made his decision.

He reached down and touched her eyelids.  They fluttered open. She
looked up at him, her pupils very black and big and unfocused. Then they
contracted and she smiled, a comfortable sleepy contented smile.

Darling, she murmured, what time is it?  Centaine, are you awake?  She
sat up quickly, and exclaimed with dismay.  Oh Blaine. You are dressed,
so soon!  Listen to me, Centaine.  This is very important.  Are you
listening?  She nodded, blinking the last vestiges of sleep from her
eyes, and stared at him solemnly.

Centaine, we are going off gold, he said, and his voice was harsh, rough
with self-contempt and guilt.  They made the decision yesterday, Ou Baas
and Barry Hertzog.  We'll be off gold by the time the markets re-open in
the New Year.  She stared at him blankly for a full five seconds and
then suddenly it struck her and her eyes flared wide open, but then
slowly the fire in them faded again.

Oh God, my darling, what it must have cost you to tell me that, she
said, and her voice shook with compassion, for she understood his sense
of honour and knew the depths of his duty.  You do love me, Blaine.  You
do truly love me.

I believe it now.  Yet he was glaring at her.  She had never seen such
an expression on his face before.  It was almost as though he hated her
for what he had done.  She couldn't bear that look, and she scrambled
onto her knees in the centre of the rumpled bed and held out her arms in
appeal.

Blaine, I won't use it.  I won't use what you have told me and he
snarled at her, his face contorted with guilt: That way you would let me
make this sacrifice for nought.  Don't hate me for it, Blaine, she
pleaded, and the anger faded from his face.

Hate you?  he asked sadly.  No, Centaine, that I could never do.  He
turned and strode from the room.

She wanted to run after him, to try and comfort him, but she knew that
it was beyond even the power of her great love.  She sensed that, like a
wounded lion, he had to be alone, and she listened to his heavy
footfalls receding down the path through the plantation outside her
window.

Centaine sat at her desk at Weltevreden.  She was alone, and in the
centre of her desk stood the ivory and brass telephone.

She was afraid.  What she was about to do would place her far beyond the
laws of society and the courts.  She was at the begiming of a journey
into uncharted territory, a lonely dangerous journey which could end for
her in disgrace and imprisonment.

The telephone rang and she started, and stared at the instrument
fearfully.  It rang again and she drew a deep breath and lifted the
handset.

Your call to Rabkin and Swales, Mrs Courtney, her secretary told her.  I
have Mr Swales on the line.  Thank you, Nigel.  She heard the hollow
tone of her voice and cleared her throat.

Mrs Courtney, She recognized Swales voice.  He was the senior partner in
the firm of stockbrokers and she had dealt with him before. 'May I wish
you the compliments of the festive season.  Thank you, Mr Swales.  Her
voice was crisp and businesslike.  I have a buying order for you, Mr
Swales.  I'd like it filled before the market closes today.  Of course,
Swales assured her.  We will complete it immediately.  Please buy at
best five hundred thousand East Rand Proprietary Mines, she said, and
there was an echoing silence in the earphones.

Five hundred thousand, Mrs Courtney, Swales repeated at last. 'ERP.M.
are standing at twenty-two and six.  That is almost six hundred thousand
pounds.  Exactly, Centaine agreed.

Mrs Courtney, Swales stopped.

Is there some problem, Mr Swales?  No, of course not.  None at all.  You
caught me by surprise, that's all.  just the size of the order.  I will
get onto it right away., I will post you my cheque in full settlement
just as soon as I receive your contract note for the purchase.  She
paused, and then went on icily, Unless, of course, you require me to
send you a deposit immediately.  She held her breath.

Nowbere could she raise even the deposit that Swales was entitled to ask
for.

Oh dear, Mrs Courtney!  I hope you didn't think, I must sincerely
apologize for having led you to think that I might question your ability
to pay.  There is absolutely no hurry.

We will post you the contract note in the usual way.  Your credit with
Rabkin and Swales is always good.  I hope to confirm the purchase for
you by tomorrow morning at the very latest.  As you are no doubt aware,
tomorrow is the final trading day before the Christmas recess. Her hands
were shaking so violently that she had trouble setting the handset of
the telephone on its hook.

What have I done?  she whispered, and she knew the answer.  She had
committed a criminal act of fraud, the maximum penalty for which was ten
years imprisonment.

She had just contracted a debt which she had no reasonable expectation
of honouring.  She was bankrupt, she knew she was bankrupt, and she had
just taken on another half million pounds obligation.  She was taken
with a fit of remorse and she reached for the telephone to cancel the
order, but it rang before she touched it.

Mrs Courtney, I have Mr Anderson of Hawkes and Giles on the line.  Put
him on, please Nigel, she ordered, and she was amazed that there was no
tremor in her voice as she said, casually, Mr Anderson, I have a
purchase order for you, please.  By noon she had telephoned seven
separate firms of stockbrokers in Johannesburg and placed orders for the
purchase of gold-mining shares to the value of five and a half million
pounds.  Then at last her nerve failed her.

Nigel, cancel the other two calls, please, she said calmly, and ran to
her private bathroom at the end of the passage with her hands over her
mouth.

just in time she fell to her knees in front of the white porcelain
toilet bowl and vomited into it a hard projectile stream, bringing up
her terror and shame and guilt, heaving and retching until her stomach
was empty and the muscles of her chest ached and her throat burned as
though it had been scalded raw with acid.

Christmas Day had always been one of their very special days since Shasa
was a child, but she awoke this morning in a sombre mood.

Still in their night clothes and dressing-gowns, she and

Shasa exchanged their presents in her suite.  He had hand painted a
special card for her, and decorated it with pressed wild flowers. His
present to her was Francois Mauriac's new no!el Noeud de Vip&res and he
had inscribed on the flyleaf: No matter what, we still have each other
Shasa.

Her present to him was a leather flying helmet with goggles and he
looked at her with amazement.  She had made her opposition to flying
very plain.

Yes, cheri, if you want to learn to fly, I'll not stop you.  Can we
afford it, Mater?  I mean, you know- You let me worry about that. 'No,
Mater.  He shook his head firmly.  I'm not a child any more. From now on
I am going to help you.  I don't want anything that will make it more
difficult for you, for us.  She ran to him and embraced him quickly,
pressing her cheek to his so that he could not see the shine of tears in
her eyes.

We are desert creatures.  We will survive, my darling.  But her moods
swung wildly all the rest of that day as Centaine played the grande
dame, the chatelaine of Weltevreden, welcoming the many callers at the
estate, serving sherry and biscuits and exchanging gifts with them,
laughing and charming, and then on the pretext of seeing to the servants
hurrying away to lock herself in the mirrored study with the drawn
curtains while she fought off the black moods, the doubts and the
terrible crippling forebodings.

Shasa seemed to understand, standing in her place when she fell out,
suddenly mature and responsible, rallying to her aid as he had never
been called upon to do before.

just before noon one of their callers brought tidings which genuinely
allowed Centaine to forget for a short time her own forebodings.  The
Rev.  Canon Birt was the headmaster of Bishops and he took Centaine and
Shasa aside for a few moments.

Mrs Courtney, you know what a name young Shasa has made for himself at
Bishops.  Unfortunately next year will be his last with us. We shall
miss him.  However, I am sure it will come as no surprise to you to hear
that I have selected him to be head of school in the new term, or that
the board of governors have endorsed my choice.  Not in front of the
Head, Mater, Shasa whispered, in an agony of embarrassment when Centaine
embraced him joyously, but she deliberately kissed both his cheeks in
the manner he designated French and pretended to disparage.

That is not all, Mrs Courtney.  Canon Birt beamed on this display of
maternal pride.  I have been asked by the board of governors to invite
you to join them.  You will be the first woman, ah, the first lady, ever
to sit on the board.  Centaine was on the point of accepting
immediately, but then like the shadow of the executioner's axe the
premonition of impending financial catastrophe dulled her vision and she
hesitated.

I know you are a very busy person, he was about to urge her.

am honoured, Headmaster, she told him.  But there are personal
considerations.  May I give you my reply in the new year?

Just as long as that is not an outright refusal No, I give you my
assurance.  If I can, I will.  When the last caller had been packed off,
Centaine could lead the family, including Sir Garry and Anna and the
very closest family friends, down to the polo field for the next act in
their traditional Weltevreden Christmas festival.

The entire coloured staff was assembled there, with their children and
aged parents and the estate pensioners too old to work, and all the
others who Centaine supported.  Every one of them was dressed in their
Sunday best, a marvelous assortment of styles and cuts and colours, the
little girls with ribbons in their hair and the small boys for once with
shoes on their feet.

The estate band, fiddles and concertinas and banjoes, welcomed Centaine,
and the singing, the very voice of Africa, was melodious and beautiful.
She had a gift for each of them, which she handed over with an envelope
containing their Christmas bonus.  Some of the older women, emboldened
by their long service and sense of occasion, embraced her, and so
precarious was Centaine's mood that these spontaneous gestures of
affection made her weep again, which set the other women off.

It was swiftly becoming an orgy of sentiment and Shasa hastily signalled
the band to strike up something lively.

They chose Alabama', the old Cape Malay song that commemorated the
cruise of the confederate raider to Cape waters when she captured the
Sea Bride in Table Bay on 5

August, 1863.

There comes the Alabama Daar kom die Alabama Then Shasa supervised the
drawing of the bung from the first keg of sweet estate wine, and almost
immediately the tears dried and the mood became festive and gay.

once the whole sheep on the spits were sizzling and dripping rich fat
onto the coals, the second keg of wine had been broached, the dancing
was losing all restraint and the younger couples were sneaking away into
the vineyards, Centaine gathered the party from the big house and left
them to it.

As they passed the Huguenot vineyard, they heard the giggling and
scuffling amongst the vines behind the stone wall and Sir Garry remarked
complacently: Shouldn't think Weltevreden is going to run short of
labour in the foreseeable future.  Sounds like a good crop being
planted.  You are as shameless as they are, Anna buffed, and then
giggled herself just as breathlessly as the young girls in the vineyard
as he squeezed her thick waist and whispered something in her ear.

That little intimacy lanced Centaine with a blade of loneliness, and she
thought of Blaine and wanted to weep again.

But Shasa seemed to sense her pain and took her hand and made her laugh
with one of his silly jokes.

The family dinner was part of the tradition.  Before they ate Shasa read
aloud to them from the New Testament as he had every Christmas Day since
his sixth birthday.  Then he and Centaine distributed the pile of
presents from under the tree, and the salon was filled with the rustle
of paper and the ooh's and aah's of delight.

The dinner was roast turkey and a baron of beef followed by a rich black
Christmas pudding.  Shasa found the lucky gold sovereign in his portion,
as he did every year without suspecting that it had been carefully
salted there by Centaine during the serving; and when at the end they
all tottered away, satiated and heavy-eyed, to their separate bedrooms,
Centaine slipped out of the french windows of her study and ran all the
way down through the plantation and burst into the cottage.

Blaine was waiting for her and she ran to him.  We should be together at
Christmas and every other day.  He stopped her from going on by kissing
her, and she reviled herself for her silliness.  When she pulled back in
his arms, she was smiling brightly.  I couldn't wrap your Christmas
present.  The shape is all wrong and the ribbon wouldn't stay on. You'll
have to take it all natural.  Where is it?  Follow me, sir, and it shall
be delivered unto you.  Now that, he said a little later, is by far the
nicest present that anybody ever gave me, and so very useful too!  There
were no newspapers on New Year's Day, but Centaine listened to the news
every hour on the radio.  There was no mention of the gold standard or
any other political issue on these bulletins.  Blaine was away, occupied
all day with meetings and discussions concerning his candidature for the
coming parliamentary by-election at the Gardens.  Shasa had gone as
house guest to one of the neighbouring estates.  She was alone with her
fears and doubts.

She read until after midnight and then lay in the darkness, sleeping
only fitfully and plagued by nightmares, starting awake and then
drifting back into uneasy sleep.

Long before dawn she gave up the attempt to find rest and dressed in
jodhpurs and riding-boots and her sheepskin coat.

She saddled her favourite stallion and rode down in the darkness five
miles to the railway station at Claremont to meet the early train from
Cape Town.

She was waiting on the platform when the bundles of newspapers were
thrown out of the goods van onto the concrete quay, and the small
coloured newsboys swarmed over them, chattering and laughing as they
divided up the bundles for delivery.  Centaine tossed one of them a
silver shilling and he hooted with glee when she waved away the change
and eagerly unfolded the newspaper.

The headlines took up fully half the front page, and they rocked her on
her feet.

SOUTH AFRICA ABANDONS GOLD STANDARD HUGE BOOST FOR GOLD MINES She
scanned the columns below, barely able to take in any more, and then,
still in a daze, rode back up the valley to Weltevreden.  Only when she
reached the Anreith gates did the full impact of it all dawn upon her.
Weltevreden was still hers, it would always be hers, and she rose in the
stirrups and shouted with joy, then urged her horse into a flying
gallop, lifting him over the stone wall and racing down between the rows
of vines.

She left him in his stall and ran all the way back to the chAteau.

She had to talk to someone, if only it could have been Blaine.  But Sir
Garry was in the dining-room; he was always first down for breakfast.

Have you heard the news, my dear?  he cried excitedly the moment she
entered.  I heard it on the radio at six o'clock.  We are off gold.
Hertzog did it!  By God, there will be a few fortunes made and lost this
day!  Anybody who is holding gold shares will double and treble their
money.  Oh, my dear, is something wrong?  Centaine had collapsed into
her chair at the head of the dining-room table.

No, no.  She shook her head frantically.  There is nothing wrong, not
any more.  Everything is all right, wonderfully, magnificently,
stupendously all right.  At lunchtime Blaine telephoned her at
Weltevreden.  He had never done so before.  His voice sounded hollow and
strange on the scratchy line.  He did not announce himself but said
Simply: Five o'clock at the cottage.  Yes, I'll be there. She wanted to
say more but the line clicked dead.

She went down to the cottage an hour early with fresh flowers, clean
crisply ironed linen for the bed and a bottle of Bollinger champagne,
and she was waiting for him when he walked into the living-room.

There are no words that can adequately express my gratitude, she said.

That is the way I want it, Centaine, he told her seriously.

No words!  We will never talk about it again.  I shall try to convince
myself it never happened.  Please promise me never to mention it, never
again as long as we live and love each other.  I give you my solemn
word, she said, and then all her relief and joy came bubbling up and she
kissed him, laughing.  Won't you open the champagne?  And she raised the
brimming glass when he handed it to her and gave him his own words back
as a toast: For as long as we live and love each other, my darling.  The
Johannesburg Stock Exchange re-opened on January the second and in the
first hour very little business could be conducted, for the floor was
like a battlefield as the brokers literally tore at each other,
screaming for attention.  But by call-over the market had shaken itself
out and settled at its new levels.

Swales of Rabkin and Swales was the first of her brokers to telephone
Centaine.  Like the market, his tone was buoyant and effervescent.

My dear Mrs Courtney, in the circumstances, Centaine was prepared to let
that familiarity pass, my very dear Mrs Courtney, your timing has been
almost miraculous.  As you know, we were unfortunately unable to fill
your entire purchase order.  We were able to obtain only four hundred
and forty thousand ERPMs at an average price of twenty-five shillings.
The volume of your order pushed the price up two and six. However, she
could almost hear him puffing himself up to make his announcement,
however, I am delighted to be able to tell you that this morning ERPMs
are trading at fifty-five shillings and still rising.  I am looking
forward to sixty shillings by the end of the week Sell them, Centaine
said quietly and heard him choke at the end of the line.

If I may be permitted to offer a word of advice Sell them, she repeated.
Sell all of them.  And she hung up, staring out of the window as she
tried to calculate her profits, but the telephone rang again before she
reached a total, and one after another her other brokers triumphantly
reported on the contracts she had made.  Then there was a call from
Windhoek.

Dr Twenty-man-Jones, it's so good to hear your voice.  She had
recognized him instantly.

Well, Mrs Courtney, this is a pretty pickle, Twenty-man-Jones told her
glumly.  The H'ani Mine will be back in profit again now, even with the
parsimonious quota De Beers is allowing us.  We've turned the corner,
Centaine enthused.  We are out of the woods.  Many a slip 'twixt cup and
lip.  Gloomily Twenty-man-Jones capped cliche with cliche.

Best not to count our chickens, Mrs Courtney.  Dr Twenty-man-Jones, I
love you.  Centaine laughed delightedly, and there was a shocked silence
that echoed across a thousand miles of wire.  I'll be there just as soon
as I can get away from here.  There is a lot for us to work on now., She
hung up and went to look for Shasa.  He was down at the stables chatting
with his coloured grooms as they sat in the sun dubbining his polo
harness and saddlery.

Cheri, I am driving into Cape Town.  Will you come with me? 'What are
you going all that way for, Mater?  It's a surprise.  That was the one
certain way to gain Shasa's full attention and he tossed the harness he
was working on to Abel and sprang to his feet.

Her ebullient mood was infectious and they were laughing together as
they walked into Porters Motors showroom on Strand Street.  The sales
manager came from his cubicle on the run.

Mrs Courtney, we haven't seen you in far too long.  May I wish you a
happy and prosperous New Year.  It's off to a good start on both counts,
she smiled.  Speaking of happiness, Mr Tims, how soon can you deliver my
new Daimler?  It will be yellow, naturally?  With black piping,
naturally!  And the usual fittings, the vanity, the cocktail cabinet?
All of them, Mr Tims.  I will cable our London office immediately. Shall
we say four months, Mrs Courtney?  Let us rather say three months, Mr
Tims.  Shasa could barely contain himself until they were on the
pavements in front of the showroom.

Mater, have you gone bonkers?  We are paupers!  Well, cheri, let's be
paupers with a little class and style.  Where are we going now?  The
post office.  At the telegraph counter Centaine drafted a cable to
Sotheby's in Bond Street: Sale no longer contemplated.  Stop. Please
cancel all preparations.

Then they went to lunch at the Mount Nelson Hotel.

Blaine had promised to meet her as early as he was able to escape from
the meeting of the proposed new coalition cabinet.  He was as good as
his word, waiting for her in the pine forest, and when she saw his face
her happiness shrivelled.

What is it, Blaine?  Let's walk, Centaine.  I've been indoors all day.
They climbed the Karbonkelberg slopes behind the estate.

At the summit they sat on a fallen log to watch the sunset and it was
magnificent.

This was the fairest Cape which we discovered in all our
circumnavigation of the earth, she misquoted from Vasco da Garna's log,
but Blaine did not correct her as she had hoped he might.

Tell me, Blaine.  She took his arm and insisted, and he turned his face
to her.

Isabella, he said sombrely.

You have heard from her?  Her spirits sank deeper at the name.

The doctors can do nothing for her.  She will be returning on the next
mail ship from Southampton.  in the silence the sun sank into the silver
sea, taking the light from the world, and Centaine's soul was as dark.

How ironic it is, she whispered.  Because of you I can have anything in
this world except that which I most desire you, my love. The women
pounded the fresh millet grain in the wooden mortars into a coarse
fluffy white meal and filled one of the leather sacks.

Carrying the sack, Swart Hendrick, followed by Moses his brother, left
the kraal after the rise of the new moon and crept silently up the ridge
in the night.  While Hendrick stood guard, Moses climbed to the old
eagle owl nest in the leadwood tree and brought down the cartridge paper
packets.

They moved along the ridge until they were beyond all possible chance of
observation from the village, and even then they very carefully screened
the small fire that they built amongst the ironstone boulders.  Hendrick
broke open the packets and poured the gleaming stones into a small
calabash gourd while Moses prepared the millet meal in another gourd,
mixing it with water until it was a soft porridge.

Meticulously Hendrick burned the cartridge paper wrappings in the fire
and stirred the ashes to powder with a stick.

When it was done he nodded at his younger brother and Moses poured the
dough over the coals.  As it began to bubble Hendrick buried the
diamonds in the unleavened dough.

Moses muttered ruefully as the millet cakes bubbled and hardened. It was
almost an incantation.  These are death stones.  We will have no joy of
them.  The white men love them too dearly: they are the stones of death
and madness.  Hendrick ignored him and shaped the baking loaves,
squinting his eyes against the smoke and smiling secretly to himself.
When each round loaf was crisped brown on the underside he flipped it
over and let it cook through until it was brick hard; then he lifted it
off the fire and set it out to cool.  Finally he repacked the crude
thick loaves into the leather sack and they returned quietly to the
sleeping village.

In the morning they left early and the women went with them the first
mile of the journey, ululating mournfully and singing the song of
farewell.  When they fell behind neither of the men looked back.  They
trudged on towards the low brown horizon, carrying their bundles
balanced on their heads.  They did not think about it, but this little
scene was acted out every single day in a thousand villages across the
southern.  sub-continent.

Days later the two men, still on foot, reached the recruitment station.
It was a single-roomed general-dealer's store, standing alone at a
remote crossroad on the edge of the desert.  The white trader augmented
his precarious business by buying cattle hides from the surrounding
nomadic tribes and by recruiting for Wenela'.

Wenela was the acronym for the Witwatersrand Native Labour Association,
a ubiquitous sprawling enterprise which extended its tentacles into the
vastness of the African wilderness.  From the peaks of the Dragon
Mountains in Basutoland to the swamps of the Zambezi and Chobe, from the
thirstlands of the Kalahari to the rain forest of the high plateau of
Nyasaland, it gathered up the trickle of black men and channelled them
first into a stream and finally into a mighty river that ran endlessly
to the fabulous goldfields of the Ridge of White Waters, the
Witwatersrand of Transvaal.

The trader looked over these two new recruits in a perfunctory manner as
they stood dumbly before him.  Their faces were deliberately
expressionless, their eyes blank, the only perfect defence of the black
African in the presence of the white man.

Name?  the trader demanded.

Henry Tabaka.  Hendrick had chosen his new name to cover his
relationship to Moses and to throw off any chance connection with Lothar
De La Rey and the robbery.

Name?  The trader looked at Moses.

Moses Gama.  He pronounced it with a guttural G'.

Have you worked on the mines before?  Do you speak English? 'Yes, Basie.
They were obsequious, and the trader grinned.

Good!  Very good!  You will be rich men when you come home from Goldi.
Plenty of wives.  Plenty of jig-jig, hey?  He grinned lasciviously as he
issued them each with a green Wenela card and a bus ticket.  The bus
will come soon.  Wait outside, he ordered, and promptly lost all
interest in them.

He had earned his guinea-a-head recruitment fee, good money easily made,
and his obligation to the recruits was at an end.

They waited under the scraggy thorn tree at the side of the iron-roofed
trading store for forty-eight hours before the railway bus came rattling
and banging and blowing blue smoke across the dreary wastes.

it stopped briefly and they slung their meagre luggage up onto the
roofrack that was already piled with calabashes and boxes and bundles,
with trussed goats and cages of woven bark stuffed with live fowls. Then
they climbed into the overloaded coach and squeezed onto one of the hard
wooden benches.  The bus bellowed and blustered on over the plains and
the rows of black passengers, wedged shoulder to shoulder, jolted and
swayed in unison as it pitched and rolled over the rutted tracks.

Two days later the bus stopped outside the barbed-wire gates of the
Wenela staging post on the outskirts of Windhoek, and most of the
passengers, all young men, descended and stood looking about them
aimlessly until a huge black overseer with brass plaques of authority on
his arm and a long sjambok in his hand chivied them into line and led
them through the gates.

The white station manager sat on the stoep of his office building, his
boots propped on the half wall of the stoep and a black bottle of German
lager at his elbow, fanning himself with his hat.  One at a time, the
black boss-boy pushed the new recruits in front of him for appraisal. He
rejected only one, a skinny little runt of a man who barely had the
strength to shuffle up to the verandah.

That bastard is riddled with TB.  The manager took a gulp of his lager.
Get rid of him.  Send him back where he came from.  When Hendrick
stepped forward he straightened up in his thonged chair and set down the
lager glass.

What is your name, boy?  he asked.

Tabaka.  Ha, you speak English.  The manager's eyes narrowed. He could
pick out the troublemakers; that was his job.  He could tell by their
eyes, the gleam of intelligence and aggression in them.  He could tell
by the way they walked and carried their shoulders; this big strutting,
sullen black was big trouble.

,R

You in trouble with the police, boy?  he asked again.  You steal other
man's cattle?  You kill your brother perhaps, or jig-jig his wife, hey?
Hendrick stared at him flatly.

Answer me, boy.  No!

You call me Baas when you speak to me, do you understand?  Yes, Baas,
Hendrick said carefully, and the manager opened the police file that lay
on the table beside him and thumbed through it slowly, suddenly looking
up to catch any sign of guilt or apprehension on Hendrick's face.  But
he was wearing the African mask again, dumb, and resigned and
inscrutable.

Christ, they stink.  He threw the file back onto the table again.

Take them away, he told the black boss-boy, and he picked up his beer
bottle and glass and went back into his office.

You know better than that, my brother, Moses whispered to him as they
were marched away towards the line of thatched huts.  When you meet a
hungry white hyena, you do not put your hand in his mouth, and Hendrick
did not reply.

They were fortunate; the draft was almost full, three hundred black men
already gathered in and waiting in the line of huts behind the
barbed-wire fence.  Some of them had been there ten days and it was time
for the next stage of their journey, thus Hendrick and Moses were not
forced to endure another interminable wait.  That night three railway
coaches were shunted onto the spur of line that ran beside the camp and
the boss-boys roused them before dawn.

Gather your belongings.  Shayile!  The hour has struck.

The steamer waits to take you to Goldi, to the place of gold. They
formed up in their ranks again and answered to the roll-call. Then they
were marched to the waiting coaches.

Here there was another white man in charge.  He was tall and sunbrowned,
his khaki shirtsleeves rolled up high on his sinewy biceps and wisps of
blond hair hanging from under the shapeless black hat that was pulled
low down on his forehead.  His features were flat and Slavic, his teeth
crooked and stained with tobacco smoke and his eyes were light misty
blue; he smiled perpetually in a bland idiotic fashion and sucked at a
cavity in one of his back teeth.  He carried a sjambok on a thong from
his wrist, and now and then, for no apparent reason, he flicked the
tapered end of the hippohide whip against the bare legs of one of the
men filing past him; it was a casual act born of disinterest and disdain
rather than calculated cruelty, and though each stroke was feathery
light, it stung like a hornet and the victim gasped and skipped and shot
up the ladder into the coach with alacrity.

Hendrick drew level with him and the foreman's lips drew back from his
bad teeth as he smiled even more widely.  The camp manager had pointed
the big Ovambo out to him.

A bad one, he had warned him.  Watch him.  Don't let him get out of
hand.  And now he used his wrist in the stroke that he aimed at the
tender skin at the back of Hendrick's knee.

Che-cha!  the overseer ordered.  Hurry up!  And the lash popped as it
wrapped around Hendrick's leg.  It did not split the skin, the overseer
was an expert, but it left a purple black welt on the dark velvety skin.

Hendrick stopped dead, the other leg lifted to the first rung of the
boarding ladder, gripping the rail with his free hand, with the other
hand balancing his bundle on his shoulder, and he turned his head slowly
until he was staring into the overseer's pale blue eyes.

Yes!  I The overseer encouraged him softly, and for the first time there
was a sparkle of interest in his eyes.  He altered his stance subtly,
coming onto the balls of his feet.

Yes!  he repeated.  He wanted to take this big black bastard, here in
front of all the others.  They were going to be five days in these
coaches, five hot thirsty days during which tempers and nerves would be
rubbed raw.  He always liked to do it right at the beginning of the
journey.  It only needed one, and it would save a lot of trouble later
if he made an example right here on the siding.  That way all of them
would know what to expect if they started anything, and in his
experience they never did start anything after that.

Come on, kaffir.  He dropped his voice even lower, making the insult
more personal and intense.  He enjoyed this part of his work, and he was
very good at it.  This cocky bastard would not be fit to travel when he
had finished with him.  He wouldn't be much use to anybody with four or
five ribs stoved in, and perhaps a broken jaw.

Hendrick was too quick for him.  He went up the ladder into the coach in
a single bound, leaving the overseer on the siding, braced and poised
for his attack with the sjambok held over-hand, ready to drive the point
of the butt into Hendrick's throat as he charged.

Hendrick's move took him completely off balance so that when he aimed a
hard cut of the lash at Hendrick's legs as he went up the ladder, he was
too late by a full half second and the stroke hissed and died in air.

Following behind his brother, Moses saw the murderous expression on the
white overseer's face as he passed.  It is not yet ended, he warned
Hendrick as they placed their bundles on the overhead racks and settled
on the hard wooden bench that ran the length of the coach.  He will come
after you again.  In the middle of the morning the three coaches were
pulled off the spur and coupled to the rear of a long train of goods
carriages, and after another few hours of shunting and jolting and false
starts, they rumbled slowly up the hills and then ran southwards.

Late in the afternoon the train stopped for half an hour at a small
siding and a food barrow was loaded into the leading coach. Under the
pale eyes of the white overseer the two black boss-boys wheeled the
barrow down the crowded coaches and each of the recruits was handed a
small tin dish of white maize cake over which a dollop of bean stew had
been spooned.

When they reached Swart Hendrick's seat, the white overseer shouldered
the boss-boy aside and took the dish from his hands to serve Hendrick's
portion himself.

We must look after this kaffir, he said loudly.  We want him to be
strong for his work at Goldi.  And he spooned an extra portion of bean
stew into the dish and offered it to Hendrick.

Here, kaffir.  But as Hendrick reached for the dish, he deliberately let
it drop onto the floor.  The hot stew splashed over Hendrick's feet and
the overseer stepped into the mess of maize porridge and ground it under
his boot.  Then he stood back with one hand on the billy club in his
belt and grinned.

Hey, you clumsy black bugger, you only get one ration.

if you want to eat it off the floor, that's up to you.  He waited
expectantly for Hendrick to react, and then grimaced with disappointment
when Hendrick dropped his eyes, leaned forward and began to scrape the
mashed cake into the dish with his fingers, then scooped a ball of it
into his mouth and munched on it stolidly.

You bloody niggers will eat anything, even your own dung, he snarled and
went on down the coach.

The windows of the coaches were barred, and the doors at both ends were
locked and bolted from the outside.  The overseer carried the ring of
keys on his belt, carefully securing all doors behind him as he passed.
From experience he knew that many of the recruits would begin to have
misgivings as soon as the journey began, and driven by homesickness and
increasing fear of the unknown, by the disturbing unfamiliarity of all
about them, would begin to desert, some of them even leaping from the
speeding coach.  The overseer made his rounds every few hours,
meticulously counting heads, even in the middle of the night, and he
stood over Hendrick deliberately shining the beam of his lantern into
his face, waking him every time he passed down the coach.

The overseer never tired of his efforts to provoke Hendrick.  It had
become a challenge, a contest between them.  He knew it was there; he
had seen it in Hendrick's eyes, just a flash of the violence and menace
and power, and he was determined to bring it out, flush it into the open
where he could crush it and destroy it.

Patience, my brother, Moses whispered to Hendrick.

Hold your anger.  Cherish it with care.  Let it grow until it is full
term, until you can put it to work for you., Hendrick was coming to rely
more on his brother's advice and counsel with each day that passed.
Moses was intelligent and persuasive, his tongue quick to choose the
right word, and that special presence which he possessed made other men
listen when he spoke.

Hendrick saw these special gifts of his demonstrated clearly in the days
that followed.  At first he spoke only to the men that sat near him in
the hot crowded coach.  He told them what it would be like at the place
where they were going, and how the white men would treat them, what
would be expected of them and what the consequences would be if they
disappointed their new employers.

The black faces around him were intent as they listened, and soon those
further up the benches were craning to catch his words and calling
softly.  Speak, louder, Gama.  Speak, that all of us may hear your
words.  Moses Gama raised his voice, a clear compelling baritone, and
they listened with respect.  There will be many black men at Goldi. More
than you ever believed possible, Zulus and Xhosas and N'debeles and
Swazis and Nyasas, fifty different tribes speaking so many languages
that you have never heard before.  Tribes as different from you as you
are different from the white man.  Some of them will be traditional
blood enemies of our tribe, waiting and watching like hyenas for a
chance to turn upon you and savage you.  There will be times when you
are deep in the earth, down there where it is always night, that you
will be at the mercy of such men.

To protect yourselves you must surround yourselves with men you can
trust; you must place yourself under the protection of a strong leader;
and in return for this protection you must give this chieftain your
obedience and loyalty., And very soon they came to recognize that Moses
Gama was this strong leader.  Within days he was the undisputed
chieftain of all the men in coach three, and while he was talking to
them and answering their queries, stilling their fears and misgivings,
Moses was in his turn assessing their individual worth, watching and
weighing each of them, selecting, evaluating and discarding.  He began
to rearrange the seating in the coach, ordering those whom he had chosen
to move closer to his own seat in the centre, gathering around him the
pick of the recruits.  And immediately the men he had singled out gained
prestige; they formed an elite praetorian guard around their new
emperor.

Hendrick watched him doing it, manipulating the men around him,
subjecting them to the force of his will and personality, and he was
filled with admiration and pride for his younger brother, giving up his
own last reservations and willingly according to him his full loyalty
and love and obedience.

By association with Moses, Hendrick himself was accorded the respect and
veneration of the other men in the coach.  He was Moses captain and
henchman and they recognized him as such, and quite slowly it dawned
upon Hendrick that in a few short days Moses Gama had forged himself an
impi, a band of warriors on whom he could rely implicitly, and that he
had done it with almost no apparent effort.

Sitting in the crowded coach that was already stinking like an animal
cage with the rancid sweat of a hundred hot bodies and with the stench
from the latrine cubicle, and mesmerized by the Messianic eyes and words
of his own brother, Hendrick thought back to the other great black
rulers who had emerged from the mists of African history, to lead first
a tiny band, then a tribe and finally a vast horde of warriors across
the continent, ravaging and plundering and laying waste.

He thought of Mantatisi and Chaka and Mzilikazi, of Shangaan and Angoni,
and with a flash of clairvoyance he saw them at their beginnings,
sitting like this at some remote camp-fire in the wilderness, surrounded
by a small group of men, weaving the spell over them, capturing their
imagination and spirit with a silken noose of words and ideas, inflaming
them with dreams.

I stand at the beginning of an enterprise which I do not yet understand,
he thought.  All I have done up until this time was only my initiation,
all the fighting and killing and striving was but a training.  Now I am
ready for the endeavour, whatever it may be, and Moses Gama will lead me
to it.  I do not need to know what it is.  It is sufficient only that I
follow where it leads.  And he was listening avidly as Moses spoke names
that he had never heard and expounded ideas that were new and strangely
exciting.

Tenin, said Moses, not a man, but a god come down to earth.  And they
thrilled to the tale of a land to the north where the tribes had united
under this man-god Lenin, had smitten down a king and in doing so had
become part of the godhead themselves.

They were enchanted and aroused as he told them of a war such as the
earth had never seen before, and their atavistic battlelust scalded
their veins and pumped up their hearts, hard and hot as the head of the
fighting axe when it comes red and glowing from the ironsmith's forge.
The revolution Moses called this war, and as he explained it to them,
they saw that they could be part of this glorious battle, they too could
be slayers of kings and become part of the godhead.

The door at the head of the coach crashed back on its slide and the
white overseer stepped through and stood with his hands on his hips,
grinning mirthlessly at them, and they lowered their heads and stared at
the floor, hooding and screening their eyes.  But those sitting close to
Moses, the chosen ones, the elite, they began to understand then where
the battle would be fought and who were the kings that would be slain.

The white overseer sensed the charged atmosphere in the coach.  It was
thick as the odour of unwashed black bodies and the stink of the latrine
in the corner of the coach; it was as electric as the air at noon in the
suicide days of November just before the great rains break, and he
searched quickly for Hendrick sitting in the centre of the coach.

One rotten potato, he thought bitterly, and the whole sackful is
spoiled.  He touched the billy club in his belt.  He had found out the
difficult way that the lash of the sjambok was too long to wield
effectively in the confines of the coaches.  The billy was a stopper,
fourteen inches of hard wood, the end drilled and filled with lead shot.
He could break bone with it, crush in a skull to kill a man instantly if
he needed to, or with a delicate alteration of the weight of the blow
merely stun him.  He was an artist with the billy club, as he was with
the sjambok, but each had its place and time.  It was the billy's time
now, and he moved slowly down the coach, pretending to ignore Hendrick,
examining the faces of each of the other men as he passed, seeing the
new rebelliousness in their sullen faces and becoming more angry with
the man who had made his task more difficult.

I should have gone after him at the beginning, he told himself bitterly.
I've almost left it too late.  Me, who loves the quiet life and the easy
way.  Well, we'll have to make the best of it now.  He glanced casually
at Hendrick as he passed, and then from the corner of his eye saw the
big Ovambo relax slightly as he went on down the aisle between the
seats.

You are expecting it, my boy.  You know it has to happen, and I'm not
going to disappoint you.  At the far door of the coach he paused, as if
he had an afterthought, and he came back down the aisle slowly, grinning
to himself.  Now he stopped in front of Hendrick again, and sucked
noisily at the cavity in his tooth.

Look at me, kaffir, he invited pleasantly and Hendrick lifted his chin
and stared at him.

Which is your mpahle?  he asked.  Which is your luggage?  and Hendrick
was taken off-guard.  He was acutely conscious of the treasure of
diamonds in the rack above his head and now he glanced up at the leather
sack instinctively.

Good.  The white overseer lifted the sack off the rack and dropped it
onto the floor in front of Hendrick.

Open it, he ordered, still grinning, one hand on his hip the other on
the handle of the billy.

Come on.  The grin became cold and wolfish as Hendrick sat without
moving.  Open it, kaffir.  Let's see what you are hiding!

It had never failed him yet.  Even the most docile of men would react to
protect their belongings, no matter how worthless and insignificant.

Slowly Hendrick leaned forward and untied the neck of the leather sack.
Then he straightened again and sat passively.

The white overseer stooped, seized the bottom of the sack and
straightened up again, never taking his eyes off Hendrick's face.  He
shook the sack vigorously, spilling the contents onto the floor.

The blanket roll fell out first, and using the toe of his boot the
overseer spread it open.  There was a sheepskin gilet and other spare
clothing in the roll, and a nine-inch knife in a leather sheath.

Dangerous weapon, said the overseer.  You know that no dangerous weapons
are allowed in the coaches.  He picked up the knife, pressed the blade
into the niche of the window and snapped it off; then he tossed the two
separate pieces out between the bars of the window behind Hendrick's
head.

Hendrick did not move, although the overseer waited for almost a minute,
staring at him provocatively.  The only sound was the clackety-clack of
the bogey over the cross ties of the steel lines and the faint buffing
of the locomotive at the head of the train.  None of the other black
passengers was watching the small drama develop; they were all staring
straight ahead of them, faces closed, eyes unseeing.

What is this rubbish?  the overseer asked and touched one of the hard
flat millet cakes with his toe, and though Hendrick did not move a
muscle, the white man saw the first spark in those black smoky eyes.

Yes, he thought gleefully.  That's it.  Now he will move.  And he picked
up a loaf and sniffed it thoughtfully.

Kaffir bread, he murmured.  Not allowed.  Company rules no food allowed
on the train.  And he turned the flat loaf on edge so that it would pass
between the bars and he tossed it through the open window. The loaf
bounced on the embankment below the rocketing steel wheels and then
shattered into fragments, and the overseer chuckled and stooped for the
next loaf.

It snapped in Hendrick's head.  He had held it in check too long and the
loss of the diamonds drove him berserk.  He went for the white man,
launching himself out of the seat, but the overseer was ready for him.
He straightened his right arm and drove the point of the billy club into
Hendrick's throat.  Then, as Hendrick fell back choking and clutching at
his throat, he whipped the club into the front of his skull, judging it
finely, not a killing blow, and Hendrick's hand dropped from his damaged
throat as he toppled forward.

However, the overseer would not let him fall, and with his left hand
shoved him back against the seat, holding him upright while he worked
with the club.

It rang like an axe on wood as it bounced off the bone of Hendrick's
skull, and it opened the thin skin of his scalp and the blood sprang up
in little ruby-bright fountains.  The overseer hit him three times,
measured calculated blows, and then he thrust the point of the club into
Hendrick's slack gaping mouth, snapping off both his incisor teeth level
with the gums.

Always mark them!  It was one of his maxims.  Mark them so they don't
forget.  Only then did he release the unconscious man and let him
topple, head first, into the centre of the aisle.

Instantly he whipped around and poised on his toes like a puffadder
cocking itself into the threatening S of the strike.

With the billy club ready in his right hand he stared down the shocked
eyes of the black men around him.  Quickly they dropped their gaze from
his and the only movement was the jerking of their bodies in time to the
swaying clatter of the coach beneath them.

Hendrick's blood was puddling under his head, and then running in little
dark red snakes across the floor of the aisle.

The overseer smiled again, looking down with an almost paternal
expression at the recumbent figure.  it had been a beautiful
performance, quick and complete, exactly as he had planned it, and he
had enjoyed it.  The man at his feet was his own creation and he was
proud of it.

He picked up the other millet loaves out of the blood puddle and one at
a time tossed them out between the bars of the window.  Finally he
squatted over the man at his feet and on the back of his shirt carefully
wiped the last traces of blood from his billy.  Then he stood up,
replaced the club in his belt and walked slowly down the aisle.

it was all right now.  The mood had changed, the atmosphere was defused.
There would be no more trouble.  He had done his job, and done it well.

He went out onto the balcony of the coach, and smiling thinly, locked
the sliding door behind him again.

The moment the door closed the men in the carriage came back to life.
Moses gave his orders crisply and two of them lifted Hendrick back into
his seat; another went to the water tank beside the latrine door, while
Moses opened his own pack and brought out a stoppered buckhorn.

While they steadied Hendrick's lolling head, Moses poured a brown powder
from the buckhorn into the wounds in his scalp.  It was a mixture of ash
and herbs, powdered finely, and he rubbed it into the open flesh with
his finger.  The bleeding stopped, and with a wet cloth he cleaned his
brother's broken mouth.  Then he cradled his unconscious head in his
arms, and waited.

Moses had watched the conflict between his brother and the white man
with almost clinical interest, deliberately restraining and directing
Hendrick's reaction until the drama had reached this explosive climax.
His attachment to his brother was still tenuous. Their father had been a
prosperous and lusty man and had brought all of his fifteen wives
regularly to the child-bed.  Moses had over thirty brothers and sisters.
Towards very few of them he felt any special affection beyond vague
tribal and family duty.  Hendrick was many years his senior and had left
the kraal when Moses was still a child.  Since then the tales of his
exploits had filtered back to him, and Hendrick's reputation had grown
on these accounts of wild and desperate deeds. But tales are only tales
until they are proven and reputations can be built on words and not
deeds.

The testing time was at hand.  Moses would consider the results of the
test and upon them would depend their future relationship.  He needed a
hard man as his lieutenant, one of the steely men.  Lenin had chosen
Joseph Stalin.  He would choose a man of steel also, a man like an axe,
and with him as a weapon he would hack and shape his own plans out of
the hard wood of the future.  If Hendrick failed the test Moses would
toss him aside with as little compassion as he would an axe whose blade
had shattered at the first stroke against the trunk of a tree.

Hendrick opened his eyes and looked at his brother with dilated pupils;
he moaned and touched the open wounds on his scalp.  He winced at the
pain and his pupils shrank and focused, and the rage flamed in their
depths as he struggled upright.

The diamonds?  His voice was low and sibilant as the hiss of one of
those deadly little horned adders of the desert.

Gone, Moses told him quietly.

We must go back, find them.  But Moses shook his head.

They are scattered like the seeds of the grass; there is no way to mark
their fall.  No, my brother, we are prisoners in this coach. We cannot
go back.  The diamonds are lost for ever.  Hendrick sat quietly, with
his tongue exploring his shattered mouth, running it over the jagged
stumps of his front teeth, considering his brother's cold logic.  Moses
waited quietly.  This time he would give no orders, point no direction,
no matter how subtle.  Hendrick must come to it of his own accord.

You are right, my brother, Hendrick said at last.  The diamonds are
gone.  But I am going to kill the man that did this to us.  Moses showed
no emotion.  He offered no encouragement.

He merely waited.

I will do it with cunning.  I will find a way to kill him, and no man
will ever know, except him and us.  Still Moses waited.  So far Hendrick
was taking the path that he had laid out for him.  However, there was
still something else he must do.  He waited for it, and it came as he
had hoped it would.

Do you agree that I should kill this white dog, my brother?  He had
asked for sanction from Moses Gama.  He had acknowledged his liege lord,
placed himself in his brother's hands, and Moses smiled and touched his
brother's arm as though he were placing a mark, a brand of approval,
upon him.

Do it, my brother, he ordered.  If he failed, the white men would hang
him on a rope; if he succeeded he would have proved himself an axe, a
steely man.

Hendrick brooded darkly in his seat, not speaking for another hour.
Occasionally massaging his temples when the throbbing pain of the blows
threatened to burst his skull open.  Then he rose and moved slowly down
the coach examining each of the barred windows, shaking his head and
muttering at the pain.  He returned to his seat and sat there for a
while, and then rose once again and shuffled down the aisle to the
latrine cubicle.

He locked himself into the cubicle.  There was an open hole in the deck
and through it he could see the rushing blur of the stone embankment
below the coach.  Many of the men using the latrine had missed the hole,
and the floor slopped with dark yellow urine and splattered faeces.

Hendrick turned his attention to the single unglazed window.  The
opening was covered with steel mesh in a wire frame which was screwed
into a wooden frame at each corner and at the centre of each side.

He returned to his seat in the carriage and whispered to Moses, 'The
white baboon took my knife.  I need another.  Moses asked no questions.
It was part of the test.  Hendrick must do it alone and, if he failed,
accept the full consequences without expecting Moses to share them or
attempt to aid him.  He spoke quietly to the men around him, and within
a few minutes a clasp knife was passed down the bench and slipped into
Hendrick's hand.

He returned to the latrine and worked on the retaining screws of the
wire frame, careful not to scratch the paintwork around them or leave
any sign that they had been tampered with.  He removed all eight screws,
eased the frame from its seating and set it aside.

He waited until the tracks made a right hand bend, judging by the
centrifugal force against his body as the coach turned under him, and
then he glanced out of the open window.

The train was turning away from him, the leading coaches and goods vans
out of sight around the bend ahead, and he leaned out of the window and
looked up.

There was a coaming along the edge of the roof of the coach.  He reached
up and ran his fingers over the ridge and found a handhold.  He raised
himself, putting his full weight upon it, hanging on his arms, only his
feet still inside the latrine window, and the rest of his body suspended
outside.

He lifted his eyes to the level of the roof and memorized the slope and
layout of the top of the coach, then he lowered himself again and ducked
back into the latrine.  He replaced the mesh over the window but turned
the screws only finger tight, then went back to his seat in the coach.

in the early evening the white overseer and his two bossboys came
through the coach with the food barrow.  When he reached Hendrick he
smiled at him without rancour.

You are beautiful now, kaffir.  The black maids will love to kiss that
mouth.  He turned and addressed the silent ranks of black men. 'If any
of you want to be beautiful also, just let me know.  I will do it for
free.  just before dark the boss-boys came back to collect the empty
dishes.

Tomorrow night you will be at Goldi, one of them told Hendrick. 'There
is a white doctor there who will treat your wounds.  There was a hint of
sympathy in his impassive black face.  It was not wise of you to anger
Tshayela, the striker.  You have learned a hard lesson, friend. Remember
it well, all of you.  He locked the door as he left the coach.

Hendrick gazed out of the window at the sunset.  In four days of travel
the landscape had changed entirely as they had climbed up onto the
plateau of the highveld.  The grasslands were pale brown, seared by the
black frosts of winter, the red earth gouged open with dongas of erosion
and divided into geometrical camps with barbed-wire.  The isolated
homesteads seemed forlorn upon the open veld with the steel-framed
windmills standing like gaunt sentinels over them, and the lean cattle
were long horned and parti-coloured, red and black and white.

Hendrick, who had lived his life in the unpeopled wilderness, found the
fences cramping and restrictive.  In this place you could never be out
of sight of other men or their works, and the villages they passed were
as sprawling and populous as Windhoek, the biggest town he had ever
conceived of.

Wait until you see Goldi,Moses told him, as the darkness fell outside
and the men around them settled down for the night, wrapping their
blankets over their heads for the chill of the highveld blew in through
the open windows.

Hendrick waited until the white overseer made his first round of the
coaches, and when he shone the beam of his lantern into Hendrick's face
made no attempt to feign sleep but blinked up at him blindly.  The
overseer passed on, locking the door as he left the coach.

Hendrick rose quietly in the seat.  Opposite him Moses stirred in the
darkness but did not speak, and Hendrick went down the aisle and locked
himself in the latrine.  Quickly he loosened the screws and worked the
frame off its seating.

He set it against the bulkhead and leaned out of the window.

The cold night air buffeted his head, and he slitted his eyes against
the hot smuts that blew back from the coal-burning locomotive and stung
his cheeks and forehead as he reached up and found his handholds on the
ridge of the coaming.

He drew himself upwards smoothly, and then with a kick and a heave,
flung the top half of his body over the edge of the roof and shot out
one arm.  He found a grip on the ventilator in the middle of the curved
roof and pulled himself the rest of the way on his belly.

He lay for a while panting and with his eyes tightly closed until he got
control of the pounding ache in his head.  Then he raised himself to his
knees and began crawling forward towards the leading edge of the roof.

The night sky was clear; the land was silver with starlight and blue
with shadow, and the wind roared about his head.

He rose to his feet and balanced against the lurch and sway of the
coach.  With his feet wide apart and his knees bent he moved forward. A
premonition of danger made him look up and he saw the dark shape rush at
him out of the darkness and he threw himself flat just as the steel arm
of one of the railway water towers flashed over his head.  A second
later it would have decapitated him, and he shivered with the cold and
the shock of near death.  After a minute he gathered himself and crawled
forward again, not raising his head more than a few inches until he
reached the front edge of the roof.

He lay spreadeagled on his belly and cautiously peered over the edge.
The balconies of the joining coaches were below him, the gap between the
roof about the span of one of his arms.  Directly under him the
footplates articulated against each other as the train clattered through
the curves of the line.  Anybody moving from one coach to the next must
pass below where Hendrick lay and he grunted with satisfaction and
looked behind him.

One of the ventilator pots was just level with his feet as he lay
outstretched.  He crawled back, drawing the heavy leather belt from the
top of his breeches, and buckled it around the ventilator, forming a
loop into which he thrust one of his feet as far as the ankle.

Once again he stretched out on the roof, one foot securely anchored by
the loop, and he reached down into the space between the coaches.  He
could just touch the banisters of the guard fence around the balcony.
Electric bulbs in wire cages were fixed to the overhang of the balconies
so the area below him was well lit.

He drew back and lay flat on the roof, only the top of his head and his
eyes showing from below.  But he knew that the lights would dazzle
anybody who looked upwards into the gap between the roofs and he settled
down to wait like a leopard in the tree over the water hole.

An hour passed and then another, but he judged the passage of time only
by the slow rotation of the stars across the night sky.  He was stiff
and freezing cold as the wind thrashed his unprotected body, but he bore
it stoically, never allowing himself to doze or lose concentration.
Waiting was always a major part of the hunt, of the game of death, and
he had played this game a hundred times before.

Suddenly, even over the rush of the train's passage and the rhythm of
the cross ties, he heard the click of steel on steel and the rattle of
keys in the lock of the door below him, and he gathered himself.

The man would step over the footplates as quickly as he could, not
wanting to be in that vulnerable and exposed position for a moment
longer than was necessary to make the crossing, and Hendrick would have
to be quicker still.

He heard the sliding door slam back against the jamb and the lock turn
again, then an instant later the crown of the white overseer's hat
appeared below him.

Instantly Hendrick shot his body forward and dropped as far as his waist
into the gap between the coaches.  Only the leather belt around his
ankle anchored him.  Lothar had taught him the double lock, and he
whipped one arm around the white man's neck, and braced his other hand
in the crook of his own elbow, catching the man's head in the vice of
his arms, and jerked him off his feet.

The white man made a strangled cawing sound and droplets of spittle flew
from his lips, sparkling in the electric light as Hendrick drew him
upwards as though he were hoisted on the gallows tree.

The white man's hat fell from his head and flitted away into the night
like a black bat, and he was kicking and twisting his body violently,
clawing at the thick muscled arms that were locked around his neck, his
long blond hair fluttering and tumbling in the night wind.  Hendrick
lifted him until their eyes were inches apart, and he smiled into his
face, exposing the mangled black pit of his own mouth, his shattered
front teeth still stained with clotted blood, and in the reflection of
the balcony lights the white man recognized him. Hendrick saw the
recognition flare in his pale dilated eyes.

Yes, my friend, he whispered.  It is me, the kaffir.  He drew the man up
another inch and wedged the back of his neck against the edge of the
roof.  Then very deliberately he put pressure on his spine at the base
of his skull.  The white man writhed and struggled like a fish on the
barbs of the harpoon, but Hendrick held him easily, staring deep into
his eyes, and bent his neck backwards, lifting with his forearm under
the chin.

Hendrick felt the spine loading and locking at the pressure.

it could give no more, and for a second longer he held him at the
breaking point.  Then with a jerk he pushed the man's chin up another
inch and the spine snapped like a dry branch.  The white man danced in
the air, twitching and shuddering, and Hendrick watched the pale blue
eyes glaze over, becoming opaque and lifeless, and over the rush of the
wind he heard the soft spluttering release as his sphincter muscle
relaxed and his bowels involuntarily voided.

Hendrick swung his dangling corpse like a pendulum and as it cleared the
balcony rail he let it drop into the gap between the coaches, directly
into the track of the racing wheels.  It was sucked away by the spinning
steel like a scrap of meat into the blades of a mincing machine.

He lay for a moment recovering his breath.  He knew that the overseer's
mutilated corpse would be smeared over half a mile of the railway
tracks.

He untied his belt from the ventilator and buckled it around his waist,
then he crawled back along the roof of the coach until he was directly
above the latrine window.  He lowered his feet over the sill and with a
twist dropped into the cubicle.  He replaced the mesh frame over the
window and tightened the screws.  He went back down the coach to his
seat, and Moses Gama was watching him as he wrapped the blanket around
his shoulders.  He nodded at his brother and pulled the corner of the
blanket over his head.  Within minutes he was asleep.

He was awakened by the shouts of the boss-boys and the jolting of the
coach as it was shunted off the main line.  He saw the name of the small
village where they had stopped painted on a white board on the platform:
Vryburg', but it meant nothing to him.

Soon the platform and the coaches were invaded by blue uniformed railway
police, and all the recruits were ordered out onto the platform.  They
lined up, shivering and sleepy under the floodlights, answered to the
roll-call.  Everyone was present.

Hendrick nudged his brother and with his chin pointed at the wheels and
bogey below their coach.  The hubs and axles were splattered with blood
and tiny slivers and particles of raw red flesh and tissue.

All the following day the coaches stood in the siding while the police
individually subjected each of the recruits to a hectoring interrogation
in the station master's office.  By mid-afternoon it was obvious that
they were coming to accept that the overseer's death was accidental and
were losing interest in the investigation.  The evidence of the locked
doors and barred windows was convincing and the testimony of the
boss-boys and every one of the recruits was unanimous and unshakable.

in the late afternoon they were loaded back into the coaches and they
rumbled on into the night, towards the fabulous Ridge of White Waters.

Hendrick woke to the excited chatter of the men around him, and when he
shouldered his way to the crowded window the first thing he saw was a
high mountain, so big that it blocked the sky to the north, a strange
and wonderful mountain, glowing with a pearly yellow light in the early
sun, a mountain with a perfectly flat top and symmetrical sloping sides.

What kind of mountain is this?  Hendrick marvelled.

A mountain taken from the belly of the earth, Moses told him. 'That is a
mine dump, my brother, a mountain built by men from the rocks they dig
up from below.  Wherever Hendrick looked there were these flat-topped
shining dumps scattered across the undulating grassland or standing
along the skyline and near each of them stood tall giraffes of steel,
long-necked and skeletal with giant wheels for heads, that spun
endlessly against the pale highveld sky.

Headgears, Moses told him.  Below each of those is a hole that reaches
down into the guts of the world, into the rock bowels that hold the
yellow Gold!  for which the white men sweat and lie and cheat, and often
kill.  As the train ran on they saw wonder followed by wonder, taller
buildings than they had ever believed possible, roads that ran like
rivers of steel with growling vehicles, tall chimneys that filled the
sky with black thunderclouds, and multitudes upon multitudes, human
beings more numerous than the springbok migrations of the Kalahari,
black men in silver helmets and knee-high rubber boots, regiments of
them, marching towards the tall headgears or, as the shifts changed,
wearily swarming back from the shafts splashed from head to foot with
yellow mud.  There were white men on the streets and platforms, white
women in gaily coloured dresses with remote disdainful expressions,
human beings in the windows of the buildings which crowded wall to red
brick wall right to the verge of the railway tracks.  It was too much,
too huge and diffuse for them to assimilate at one time and they gaped
and exclaimed and pressed to the windows of the coach.

Where are the women?  Hendrick asked suddenly, and Moses smiled.

Which women, brother?  The black women, the women of our tribe? 'There
are no women here, not the type of women you know.  There are only the
Isifebi, and they do it for gold.

Everything here is for gold.  Once again they were shunted off the main
line into a fenced enclosure in which the long white barrack buildings
stood in endless rows and the signboard above the gates read:
WITWATERSRAND NATIVE LABOUR ASSOCIATION CENTRAL RAND INDUCTION CENTRE
From the coaches they were led to a long shed by a couple of grinning
boss-boys and instructed to strip to the buff.

The lines of naked black men shuffled forward under the paternal eyes of
the boss-boys, who treated them in a friendly jocular fashion.

Some of you have brought your livestock with you, they joked. 'Goats on
your scalp, and cattle in your pubic hairs, and dipping the paint
brushes they wielded into buckets of bluebutter ointment, they plastered
the heads and crotches of the recruits.

Rub it in, they ordered.  We don't want your lice and crabs and itchy
crawlies.  And the recruits entered into the spirit of the occasion and
roared with laughter as they smeared each other with the sticky butter.

At the end of the shed they were each handed a small square of blue
mottled carbolic soap.

Your mothers may think you smell like the mimosa in flower, but even the
goats shudder when you pass upwind.  The boss-boys laughed and shoved
them under the hot showers.

The doctors were waiting for them when they emerged, scrubbed and still
naked, and this time the medical examinations were exhaustive. Their
chests were sounded and all their bodily apertures probed and
scrutinized.

"What happened to your mouth, and your head?  one doctor demanded of
Hendrick.  No, don't tell me.  I don't want to know.  He had seen
injuries like these before.  Those bloody animals in charge of the
trains.  All, right, we will send you to the dentist to have those
stumps pulled, too late to stitch the head, you'll have a couple of
lovely scars!

Apart from that, you are a beauty.  He slapped Hendrick's hard shiny
black muscles.  We'll put you down for underground work, and you'll get
the underground bonus., They were issued grey overalls and hobnailed
boots, and then given a gargantuan meal, as much as they could eat.

It is not like I thought it would be.  Hendrick spooned stew into his
mouth.  Good food, white men who smile, no beatings, not like the train.
Brother, only a fool starves and beats his oxen, and these white men are
not fools.  One of the other Ovambo men took Moses empty dish to the
kitchen and returned with it refilled.  It was no longer necessary for
him to give orders for such menial services.

His wants were taken care of by the men around him as if by birthright.
Already the death of the white overseer, Tshayela, the striker, had been
embroidered and built into a legend by many repetitions, reinforcing the
stature and authority of Moses Gama and his lieutenant; men walked
softly around them and inclined their heads respectfully when either
Moses or Hendrick spoke directly to them.

At dawn the next morning they were roused from their bunks in the
barrack rooms and after a huge breakfast of maize cake and maas, the
thick clotted sour milk, they were led to the long iron-roofed
classroom.

Then of forty different tribes come from every corner of the land to
Goldi, men speaking forty different languages, from Zulu to Tswana, from
Herero to Basuto, and only one in a thousand of them understands a word
of English or of Afrikaans, Moses explained softly to his brother as the
other men respectfully made room for them on one of the classroom
benches.  Now they will teach us the special language of Goldi, the
tongue by which all men, whether black or white, and of whatever tribe,
speak to each other here.  A venerable old Zulu boss-boy, his pate
covered with a cap of shining silver wool, was their instructor in the
lingua franca of the gold mines, Fanakalo.  The name was taken from its
own vocabulary and meant literally like this, like that', the phrase
that the recruits would have urged upon them frequently over the weeks
ahead: Do it like this!  Work like that! Sebenza fanakalo!  The Zulu
instructor on the raised dais was surrounded by all the accoutrements of
the miner's trade, set out on display so that he could touch each item
with his pointer and the recruits would chant the name of it in unison.
Helmets and lanterns, hammers and picks, jumper bars and scrapers,
safety rails and rigs, they would know them all intimately before they
stood their first shift.

But now the old Zulu touched his own chest and said: AUna!  Then pointed
at his class and said: Wena!  And Moses led them in the chant: The! You!
Head!  said the instructor and Arm!  and Leg!  He touched his own body
and his pupils imitated him enthusiastically.

They worked at the language all that morning and then after lunch they
were divided into groups of twenty and the group that included Moses and
Hendrick was taken to another iron-roofed building similar to the
language classroom.  It differed only in its furnishings.  Long trestle
tables ran from wall to wall, and the person that welcomed them was a
white man with peculiar bright ginger-coloured hair and mustache and
green eyes.  He was dressed in a long white coat like those the doctors
had worn, and like them he was smiling and friendly, waving them to
their places at the tables and speaking in English that only Moses and
Hendrick understood, although they were careful not to make their
understanding apparent and maintained a pantomime of perplexity and
ignorance.

All right you fellows.  My name is Dr Marcus Archer and I am a
psychologist.  What we are going to do now is give you an aptitude test
to see just what kind of work you are best suited to.  The white man
smiled at them and then nodded to the boss-boy beside him, who
translated: You do what Bomvu, the red one, tells you.  That way we can
find out just how stupid you are.  The first test was a blockbuilding
exercise which Marcus Archer had developed himself to test basic manual
dexterity and awareness of mechanical shape.  The multicoloured wooden
blocks of various shapes had to be fitted into the frame on the table in
front of each subject in the manner of an elementary jigsaw puzzle and
the time allotted for completion was six minutes.  The boss-boy
explained the procedure and gave a demonstration and the recruits took
their seats at the tables and Marcus Archer called: Enza!

Do it!  and started his stop watch.

Moses completed his puzzle in one minute six seconds.

According to Dr Archer's meticulous records, to date 1 1 6,816

had sat this particular test.  Not one of them had completed it in under
two and a half minutes.  He left the dais and went down to Moses table
to check his assembly of the blocks.

It was correct, and he nodded and studied Moses expressionless features
thoughtfully.

Of course, he had noticed Moses the moment he entered the room. He had
never seen such a beautiful man in his life, either black or white, and
Dr Archer's preference was strongly for black skin.  That was one of the
main reasons he had come out to Africa five years before, for Dr Marcus
Archer was a homosexual.

He had been in his third year at Magdalene College before he admitted
this fact to himself, and the man who had introduced him to the
bitter-sweet delights had at the same time stimulated his intellect with
the wondrous new doctrines of Karl Marx and the subsequent refinements
to that doctrine by Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.  His lover had secretly
enrolled him in the Britis Communist Party, and after he had left
Cambridge introduced him to the comrades of Bloomsbury.  However, the
young Marcus had never felt entirely at home in intellectual London.  He
had lacked the spiked tongue, the ready acid wit and the feline cruelty,
and after a short and highly unsatisfactory affair with Lytton Strachey,
he had been given Lytton's notorious treatment and ostracized from the
group.

He had banished himself into the wilderness of Manchester University, to
take up the new science of industrial psychology.  In Manchester he had
begun a long and lyrically happy liaison with a Jamaican trombone player
and allowed his connections with the Party to fall into neglect.
However, he was to learn that the Party never forgets its chosen ones
and at the age of thirty-one, when he had already made some small
reputation for himself in his profession, but when his association with
his Jamaican lover had ended acrimoniously and he was dejected and
almost suicidal, the Party had reached out one of its tentacles and
drawn him gently back into the fold.

They told him that there was an opening in his field with the South
African Chamber of Mines working with African Mineworkers.  His penchant
for black skin was by now an addiction.  The infant South African
Communist Party was in need of bolstering and the job was his if he
wanted.  It was implied that he had free choice in the matter, but the
outcome was never in doubt and within a month he had sailed for Cape
Town.

In the following five years he had done important pioneering work with
the Chamber of Mines and had received both recognition and deep
satisfaction from it.  His connections with the Party had been carefully
concealed, but the covert work he had done in this area was even more
important, and his commitment to the ideals of Marxism had grown
stronger as he grew older and saw at first hand the inhumanities of
class and racial discrimination, the terrible abyss that separated the
Poor and dispossessed black proletariat from the enormous wealth and
privilege of the white bourgeoisie.  He had found that in this rich and
beautiful land all the gross ills of the human condition flourished as
though in a hothouse, exaggerated until they were almost a caricature of
evil.

Now Marcus Archer looked at this noble young man with the face of an
Egyptian god and a skin of burnt honey, and he was filled with longing.

You speak English, don't you?  he asked, and Moses nodded.

Yes, I do, he said softly, and Marcus Archer had to turn away and go
back to his dais.  His passion was impossible to disguise, and his
fingers were trembling as he took up a stick of chalk and wrote upon the
blackboard, giving himself a respite to get his emotions under control.

The tests continued for the rest of the afternoon, the subjects
gradually being sorted and channelled into their various grades and
levels on the results.  At the end only one remained in the main stream.
Moses Gama had completed the progressively more difficult tests with the
same aplomb as he had tackled the first, and Dr Archer realized that he
had discovered a prodigy.

At five o'clock the session ended and thankfully the subjects trooped
from the classroom; the last hour had taxed even the brightest amongst
them.  Moses alone had remained undaunted and as he filed past the desk
Dr Archer said: Gama!  He had taken the name from the register.  There
is one more task I would like you to attempt., He led Moses down the
verandah to his office at the end.

You can read and write, Gama?  Yes, Doctor.  It is a theory of mine that
a man's handwriting can be studied to find the key to his personality,
Archer explained.

And I would like you to write for me.  They sat side by side at the
desk, and Dr Archer set writing materials in front of Moses, chatting
easily.  This is a standard text I use.  On the card he handed Moses was
printed the nursery rhyme The Cat and the Fiddle'.

Moses dipped the pen and Archer leaned closer to watch.

His writing was large and fluent, the characters formed with sharp
peaks, forward sloping and definite.  All the indications of mental
determination and ruthless energy were present.

Still studying the handwriting Archer casually laid his hand on Moses
thigh, intensely aware of the hard rubbery muscle beneath the velvety
skin, and the nib spluttered as Moses started.  Then his hand steadied
and he went on writing.  He finished, laid the pen down carefully, and
for the first time looked directly into Marcus Archer's green eyes.

Gama.  Marcus Archer's voice shook and his fingers tightened. 'You are
much too intelligent to waste your time shovelling ore.  He paused and
moved his hand slowly up Moses leg.

Moses stared steadily into his eyes.  His expression did not change, but
he let his thighs fall slowly open, and Marcus Archer's heart was
thumping wildly against his ribs.

I want you to work as my personal assistant, Gama, he whispered, and
Moses considered the magnitude of this offer.

He would have access to the files of every worker in the gold-mining
industry; he would be protected and privileged, free to pass and enter
where other black men were forbidden.

The advantages were so numerous that he knew he could not grasp them all
in so brief a moment.  For the man who made the offer he felt almost
nothing, neither revulsion nor desire, but he would have no compunction
in paying the price he demanded.  If the white man wished to be treated
as a woman, then Moses would readily render him this service.

Yes, Doctor, I would like to work for you, he said.

On the last night in the barrack room of the induction centre, Moses
called all his chosen lieutenants to him.  They clustered around his
bunk.

Very soon you will go from here to the Goldi.  Not all of you will go
together for there are many mines along the Rand.  Some of you will go
down into the earth, others will work on the surface in the mills and
the reduction plants.

We will be separated for a while, but you will not forget that we are
brothers.  I, your elder brother, will not forget you.  I have important
work for you.  I will seek you out, wherever you are, and you will be
ready for me when I summon you.  Eh heP they granted in agreement and
obedience.  We are your younger brothers.  We will listen for your
voice.  You must know always that you are under my protection, that all
trespasses against you will be revenged.  You have seen what happens to
those who give offence to our brotherhood.  We have seen it, they
murmured.  We have seen it, and it is death.  it is death, Moses
confirmed.  It is death also for any of the brotherhood who betray us.
It is death for all traitors.  Death to all traitors.  They swayed
together, coming once more under the mesmeric spell which Moses Gama
wove about them.

I have chosen a totem for our brotherhood, Moses went on.  I have chosen
the buffalo for our totem for he is black and powerful and all men fear
him.  We are the Buffaloes.  We are the Buffaloes. Already they were
proud of the distinction.  We are the black Buffaloes and all men will
learn to fear us.  These are the signs, the secret signs by which we
will recognize our own.  He made the sign and then individually clasped
their right hands in the fashion of the white man, but the grip was
different, a double grip and turn of the second finger.  Thus you will
know your brothers when they come to you.  They greeted each other in
the darkened barracks, each of them shaking the hand of all the others
in the new way, and it was a form of initiation into the brotherhood.

You will hear from me soon.  Until I call, you must do as the white man
requires of you.  You must work hard and learn.  You must be ready for
the call when it comes.  Moses sent them away to their bunks and he and
Hendrick sat alone, their heads together, speaking in whispers.

You have lost the little white stones, Moses told him.

By now the birds and the small beasts will have pecked the loaves and
devoured the millet bread.  The stones will be scattered and lost; the
dust will cover them and the grass will grow over them.  They are gone,
my brother., Yes.  They are gone, Hendrick lamented.  After so much
blood and striving, after all the hardships we endured, they have been
scattered like seeds to the wind.  They were accursed, Moses consoled
him.  From the moment I saw them I knew that they would bring only
disaster and death.  They are white man's toys.  What could you have
done with the white man's wealth?  If you tried to spend it, if you
tried to buy white man's things with it, you would instantly have been
marked by the white police.

They would have come for you immediately and there would have been a
rope or a jail cell for you.  Hendrick was silent, considering the truth
of this.  What could he have purchased with the stones?  Black men could
not own their own land.  More than a hundred head of cattle and the
local chieftain's envy would have been aroused.  He already had all the
wives, and more, that he wished for, and black men did not drive in
motor cars.  Black men did not draw attention to themselves in any way,
not if they were wise.

No, my brother, Moses told him softly.  They were not for you. Thank the
spirits of your ancestors that they were wrested from you and scattered
back on the earth where they belong.  Hendrick growled softly, Still it
would have been good to have that treasure, to hold it in my hands, even
secretly.  There are other treasures even more important than diamonds
or white man's gold, my brother.  What are these treasures?  Hendrick
asked.

Follow me and I will lead you to them.  But tell me what they are,
Hendrick insisted.

You will discover them in good time.  Moses smiled.  But now, my
brother, we must talk of first things; the treasures will follow later.

Listen to me.  Borrivu, the red one, my little doctor who likes to be
used as a woman, Bomvu has allocated you to the Goldi called Central
Rand Consolidated.  it is one of the richest of the Goldi, with many
deep shafts.

You will go underground, and it is best if you make a name for yourself
there.  I have prevailed on Bomvu to send ten of our best men from the
Buffaloes to CRC with you.  These will be your impi, your chosen
warriors.  You must start with them, but you will build upon them,
gathering around you the quick and strong and the fearless. 'What must I
do with these men?  Hold them in readiness.  You will hear from me soon.
Very soon.  What of the other Buffaloes?  Borrivu has sent them, at my
suggestion, in groups of ten to each of the other Goldi along the Rand.
Small groups of our men everywhere.  They will grow, and soon we will be
a great black herd of buffaloes which even the most savage lion will not
dare to challenge.  Swart Hendrick's initial descent in the earth was
the first time in his life that he had been frightened witless, unable
to speak or think, so terrified that he could not even scream or
struggle against it.

The terror began when he was in the long line of black miners, each of
them wearing black rubber gumboots and grey overalls, the unpainted
silver helmets on their heads fitted with head lanterns. Hendrick
shuffled forward in the press of bodies down the ramp between the poles
of the crush, like cattle entering an abattoir, stopping and starting
forward again.  Suddenly he found himself at the head of the line,
standing before the steel mesh gate that guarded the entrance to the
shaft.

Beyond the mesh he could see the steel cables hanging into the shaft
like pythons with shining scales, and over him towered the steel
skeleton of the headgear.  When he looked up he could see the huge
wheels silhouetted against the sky a hundred feet above his head,
spinning and stopping and reversing.

Suddenly the mesh gates crashed open and he was carried on the surge of
black bodies into the cage beyond.  They packed shoulder to shoulder,
seventy men.  The doors closed, the floor dropped under his feet and
stopped again immediately.  He heard the tramp of feet over his head and
looked up, realizing that the skip was a double decker and that another
seventy men were being packed into the top compartment.

Again he heard the clash of closing mesh gates and he started as the
telegraph shrilled, four long rings, the signal to descend, and the skip
fell away under him, but this time accelerating so violently that his
body seemed to come free and his feet lay only lightly on the steel
floor plates.  His belly was sucked up against his ribs and his terror
was unleashed.

In darkness the skip rocketed downwards, drumming and rattling and
racing like an express train in a tunnel, and the terror went on and on,
minute after minute, eternity after eternity.  He felt himself
suffocating, crushed by the thought of the enormous weight of rock above
him, his ears popping and crackling at the pressure, a mile and then
another mile straight down into the earth.

The skip stopped so abruptly that his knees buckled and he felt the
flesh of his face sucked down from the bones of his skull, stretching
like rubber.  The gates crashed open and he was carried out into the
main haulage, a cavern walled with glistening wet rock, filled with men,
hundreds of men like rats in a sewer, streaming away into the endless
tunnels that honeycombed the bowels of the world.

Everywhere there was water, glistening and shining in the flat glare of
the electric light, running back in channels on each side of the
haulage, squelching under his feet, hidden water drumming and rustling
in the darkness or dripping from the jagged rock of the roof. The very
air was heavy with water, humid and hot and claustrophobic so that it
had a gelatinous texture, seeming to fill his eardrums and deafen him,
trickling sluggishly into his lungs like treacle, and his terror lasted
all that long march along the drive until they reached the stopes.  Here
the men split into their separate gangs and disappeared into the
shadows.

The stopes were the vast open chambers from which the gold-bearing ore
had already been excavated, the hanging wall above supported now by
packed pillars of shoring timber, the footwall under them inclined
upwards at an angle following the run of the reef.

The men of his gang trudging ahead of him led Hendrick to his station,
and here under a bare electric bulb waited for the white shift boss, a
burly Afrikaner flanked by his two boss-boys.

The station was a three-sided chamber in the rock, its number on the
entrance.  There was a long bench against the back wall of the station
and a latrine, its open buckets screened by sheets of burlap.

The gang sat on the bench while the boss-boys called the roll, and then
the white shift boss asked in Fanakalo, Where is the new hammer boy? and
Hendrick rose to his feet.

Cronje, the shift boss, came to stand in front of him.  Their eyes were
on a level, both big men.  The shift boss's nose was crooked, broken
long ago in a forgotten brawl, and he examined Hendrick carefully.  He
saw the broken gap in his teeth and the scars upon his head and his
respect was tentative and grudging.  They were both hard, tough men,
recognizing it in each other.  Up there in the sunshine and sweet cool
airs they were black man and white man.  Down here in the earth they
were simply men.

You know the hammer?  Cronje asked in Fanakalo.

I know it, Hendrick replied in Afrikaans.  He had practised working the
hammer for two weeks in the surface training pits.

Cronje blinked and then grinned to acknowledge the use of his own
language.  I run the best gang of rock breakers on the CRC, he said,
still grinning.  You will learn to break rock, my friend, or I will
break your head and your arse instead.  Do you understand?  I
understand.  Hendrick grinned back at him, and Cronje raised his voice.

All hammer boys here!  They stood up from the bench, five of them, all
big men like Hendrick.  It took tremendous physical strength to handle
the jack hammers.  They were the elite of the rockbreaking gangs,
earning almost double wages and bonus for footage, earning also immense
prestige from lesser men.

Cronje wrote their names up on the blackboard under the electric bulb:
Henry Tabaka at the bottom of the list and Zama, the big Zulu, at number
one.  When Zama stripped off his jacket and tossed it to his line boy,
his great black muscles bulged and gleamed in the stark electric light.

Ha" He looked at Hendrick.  So we have a little Ovambo jackal come in
yipping from the desert.  The men around him laughed obsequiously.  Zama
was top hammer on the section; evervbody laughed when he made a joke.

I thought that the Zulu baboon scratched his fleas only on the peaks of
the Drakensberg so his voice can be heard afar, Hendrick said quietly,
and there was a shocked silence for a moment and then a guffaw of
disbelieving laughter.

All right, You two big talkers, Cronjeintervened, let's break some rock.
He led them from the station up the stope to the rock-face where the
gold reef was a narrow grey horizontal band in the jagged wall, dull and
nondescript, without the faintest precious sparkle.  The gold was locked
away in it.

The roof was low; a man had to double over to reach the face; but the
stope was wide, reaching away hundreds of metres into the darkness (in
either band, and they could hear the other gangs out there along the
rockface, their voices echoing and reverberating, their hinterns
throwing weird shadows.

Tabaka!" Cronje yelled.  Here!  He had marked the shot holes to be
drilled with splashes of white paint, indicating the inclination anti
depth of each hole.

The blast was a Precise and calculated firing of gelignite I charges.
The outer holes would be charged with shapers to form the hanging wall
and foot wall of the stopc they would fire first, while the pattern of
inner shots fired a second later.  These were the 'cutters that would
kick the ore back and clear it from the face.

Shaya!  Cronje yelled at Hendrick.  Hit it!  and lingered a second to
watch as Hendrick stooped to the drill.

it squatted on the rock floor in front of the face, an ungainly tool in
the shape of a heavy machine-gun, with long pneumatic hoses attached to
it and running back down the slope to the compressed airsystem in the
main haulage.

Swiftly Hendrick fitted the twenty-foot-long steel jumpers

bit into the lug of the drill and then he and his line boy dragged the
tool to the rockface.  It took all the strength of both Hendrick and his
assistant to lift the tool and position the point of the drill on the
white paint mark for the first cut.  Hendrick eased himself into
position behind the tool, taking the full weight of it on his right
shoulder.  The line boy stepped back, and Hendrick opened the valve.

The din was stunning, a stuttering implosion of sound that drove in
against the eardrums as compressed air at a pressure of 500 pounds a
square inch roared into the drill and slammed the long steel bit into
the rock.

Hendrick's entire body shuddered and shook to the drive of the tool
against his shoulder but still he leaned his full weight against it. His
head jumped on the thick corded column of his neck so rapidly that his
vision blurred, but he narrowed his eyes and aimed the point of the
drill into the rock at the exact angle that the shift boss had called
for.

Water squirted down the hollow drill steel, bubbling out of the hole in
a yellow mist, splattering into Hendrick's face.

The sweat burst from his black skin, running down his face as though he
were standing under a cloudburst, mingling with the slimy mud pouring
down his naked back and scattering like rain as his straining muscles
fluttered and jumped to the impulse of the pounding steel drill at his
shoulder.

Within minutes the entire surface of his body began to itch and burn. It
was the hammer boys affliction; his skin was being scrubbed back and
forth a thousand times a minute by the violent shaking motion of the
drill, and with each minute the agony became more intense.  He tried to
close his mind to it but still it felt as though a blowtorch was being
played over his body.

The long steel drill sank slowly into the rock until it reached the
depth marker painted on it and Hendrick closed the valve.  There was no
silence for even though his hearing was dulled, as though his eardrums
were filled with cotton wool, yet he could still hear the echoes of the
drill thunder resounding against the roof of his skull.

7.Ne The line boy ran forward, seized the jumper bit and helped him
withdraw it from the first shot hole and reposition the tip on the
second daubed paint mark.  Once again Hendrick opened the valve and the
din and the agony began again.

However, gradually the itching burn of his body blurred into numbness
and he felt disembodied as though cocaine had been injected under his
skin.

So he stood to the rock all that shift, six hours without let or relief.
When it ended and they trooped back from the face, splattered and coated
with yellow mud from head to foot and weary beyond pain or feeling, even
Zama the great black Zulu was reeling on his feet and his eyes were
dull.

In the station Cronje wrote the total of work completed against their
names on the blackboard.  Zama had drilled sixteen patterns, Hendrick
twelve and the next best man ten.

Hau!  Zama muttered as they rode up to the surface in the crowded skip.
On his very first shift the jackal is number two hammer.  And Hendrick
had just enough strength to reply: And on his second shift the jackal
will be top hammer.  it never happened.  Not once did he break more rock
than the Zulu.  But at the end of that first month as Hendrick sat in
the company beer hall with the other Ovambos of the Buffalo totem
gathered around him, the Zulu came to his table carrying two one-gallon
jugs of the creamy effervescent millet beer that the company sold its
men.  It was thick as porridge, and just as nutritious, though only very
mildly alcoholic.

Zama set a one-gallon jug down in front of Hendrick and said: We broke
some rock together this month, hey, jackal?  And we'll break a lot more
together next month, hey, baboon?  And they both roared with laughter
and raised the beer jugs in unison and drank them dry.

Zama was the first Zulu to become initiated into the brotherhood of the
Buffaloes, not as natural as it sounded for tribal barriers, like
mountain ranges, were difficult to cross.

It was three months before Hendrick saw his brother again, but by that
time Hendrick had extended his influence throughout the entire compound
of black mine workers at the CRC mine property.  With Zama as his
lieutenant, the Buffaloes now encompassed men from many different
tribes, Zulus and Shangaans and Matabeles.  The only criterion was that
the new initiates should be hard reliable men, preferably with some
influence over at least a section of the eight thousand odd black
miners, and preferably also appointed by the mine administration to
positions of authority on the property: clerks or boss-boys or company
police.

Some of the men who were approached resisted the brotherhood's
overtures.  One of these, a senior Zulu bossboy with thirty years
service and a misplaced sense of duty to his tribe and the company, fell
into one of the ore chutes on the sixtieth level of the main haulage the
day after he refused.  His body was ground to a muddy paste by the tons
of jagged rock that rumbled over it.  It seemed that nobody had
witnessed the accident.

one of the company police indunas, who also resisted the blandishments
of the brotherhood, was found stabbed to death in his sentry box at the
main gates to the property, while yet another was burned to death in the
kitchens.  Three Buffaloes witnessed this last unfortunate incident
caused by the victim's own clumsiness and inattention and there were no
more refusals.

When at last the messenger came from Moses, identifying himself with the
secret sign and handclasp, he bore a summons to a meeting, and Hendrick
was able to leave the mine property without check.

By government decree the black mine workers were strictly confined
within the barbed-wire fences of the compounds.  It was the opinion of
both the Chamber of Mines and the Johannesburg city fathers that to let
tens of thousands of single black males roam the goldfields at will
would invite disaster.  They had the salutary lesson of the Chinese
before them.  In 1904, almost fifty thousand Chinese coolies had been
brought into South Africa to fill the huge shortage of unskilled labour
for the gold mines.  However, the Chinese were much too intelligent and
restless to be confined to compounds and restricted to unskilled labour
and they were highly organized in their secret long societies.  The
result was a wave of lawlessness and terror that swept over the
goldfields, rapine and robbery, gambling and drugs, so that in 1908, at
huge cost, all the Chinese were rounded up and shipped home.  The
government was determined to avoid a repetition of this terror and the
compound system was strictly enforced.

However, Hendrick passed through the gates of the CRC compound as though
he were invisible.  He crossed the open veld in the starlight until he
found the overgrown track and followed it to the old abandoned
shafthead.  There, parked behind the deserted rusting corrugated iron
shed, was a black Ford sedan and as Hendrick approached it cautiously
the headlights were switched on, spotlighting Hendrick, and he froze.

Then the lights were switched off and Moses voice called out of the
darkness, I see you, my brother.  They embraced impulsively and then
Hendrick laughed.

Ha!  So you drive a motor car now, like a white man.  The motor car
belongs to Bomvu.  Moses led him to it, and Hendrick sank back against
the leather seat and sighed comfortably.  This is better than walking.
Now tell me, Hendrick my brother.  What has happened at CRC?  And Moses
listened without comment until Hendrick finished his long report.  Then
he nodded.

You have understood my wants.  It is exactly as I wished it.  The
brotherhood must take in men from all the tribes, not just the Ovambo.
We must reach to each tribe, each property, every corner of the
goldfields.  You have said all this before, Hendrick growled, but you
have never told me why, my brother.  I trust you, but the men I have
assembled, the impi you bid me build, they look to me, and they ask one
question.  They ask me why?  What is the profit in this thing?  What is
there for us in the brotherhood?  And what do you answer them, my
brother?  I tell them they must be patient.  Hendrick scowled.  I do not
know the answer, but I look wise as if I do.  And if they nag me, like
children, well, then I beat them like children.  Moses laughed
delightedly, but Hendrick shook his head.

Don't laugh, my brother, I can't go on beating them much longer. Moses
clapped his shoulder.  Nor will you have to much longer.  But tell me
now, Hendrick, what is it you have missed most in the months you have
worked at CRCV Hendrick answered.  The feeling of a woman under me. That
you shall have before the night is finished.  And what else, my brother?
The fire of good liquor in my belly, not the weak slop from the company
beerhall.  My brother, Moses told him seriously, 'you have answered your
own question.  These are the things that your men will get from the
brotherhood.  These are the scraps we will throw our hunting dogs: women
and liquor and, of course money, but for those of us at the head of the
Buffaloes there will be more, much more.  He started the engine of the
Ford.

The gold-bearing reefs of the Witwatersrand form a sprawling arc one
hundred kilometres in length.  The older properties such as East
Daggafontein are in the eastern sector of the arc where the reef
originally outcropped; the newer properties are in the west where the
reef dips away sharply to great depth; but like Blyvooruitzicht, these
deep mines are enormously rich.  All the mines are laid out along this
fabulous crescent, surroun e the urban development which the gold wealth
has attracted and fostered.

Moses drove the black Ford southwards, away from the mines and the white
man's streets and buildings, and the road they followed quickly narrowed
and deteriorated, its surface rutted and riven with pot holes and
puddles from the last thunderstorm.  it lost direction and began to
meander, degenerating into a maze of lanes and tracks.

The street lights of the city were left behind them, but out here there
was other illumination: the glow of hundreds of wood fires, their orange
light muted by their own drifting smoke banks.  There was one of these
cooking fires in front of each of the shanties of tarpaper and old
corrugated iron that crowded so closely that there were only narrow
lanes between them, and there was amongst the shacks a feeling of the
presence of many unseen people, as though an army were encamped out here
in the open veld.

Where are we?  Hendrick asked.

We are in a city that no man acknowledges, a city of people who do not
exist.  Hendrick glimpsed their dark shapes as the Ford bumped and
pitched over the rough track between the shanties and shacks and the
headlights swung aimlessly back and forth illuminating little cameo
scenes: a group of black children stoning a pariah dog; a body lying
beside the track drunk or dead; a woman squatting to urinate in the
angle of one of the orrugated iron walls; two men locked in silent
deadly combat; a family at one of the fires eating from tins of bully
beef, their eyes huge and shining as they looked up startled into the
headlights; and other dark shapes scurrying furtively away into the
shadows, hundreds of them and the presence of thousands more sensed.

This is Drake's Farm, Moses told him.  One of the squatter townships
that surround the white man's Goldi.  The odour of the amorphous
sprawling aggregation of humanity was woodsmoke and sewage, old sweat on
hot bodies and charred food on the open wood fires.  It was the smell of
garbage mouldering in the rain puddles and the nauseating sweetness of
bloodsucking vermin in unwashed bedding.

How many live here?  Five thousand, ten thousand.  Nobody knows, nobody

cares.  Moses stopped the Ford and switched off the headlights and the
engine.

The silence afterwards was not truly silence; it was the murmur of
multitudes like the sea heard at a distance, the mewling of infants, the
barking of a cur dog, the sounds of a woman singing, of men cursing and
talking and eating, of couples arguing shrilly or copulating, of people
dying and defecating and snoring and gambling and drinking in the night.

Moses stepped out of the Ford and called imperatively into the darkness
and half a dozen dark figures came scurrying from amongst the shacks.
They were children, Hendrick realized, though their age and sex were
obscure.

Stand guard on my motor car, Moses ordered, and tossed a small coin that
twinkled in the firelight until one of the children snatched it from the
air.

Eh he!  Baba!  they squeaked, and Moses led his brother amongst the
shacks for a hundred yards and the sound of the women singing was
louder, a thrilling evocative sound, and there was the buzz of many
other voices and the sour smell of old stale alcohol and meat cooking on
an open fire.

They had reached a long low building, a rough shed cobbled together from
discarded material.  Its walls were crooked and the outline of the roof
was buckled and sway backed against the fireglow. Moses knocked upon the
door and a lantern was flashed in his face before the door was thrown
open.

So my brother!  Moses took Hendrick's arm and drew him into the doorway.
This is your first shebeen.  Here you will have all that I promised you:
women and liquor, your fill of both.  The shed was packed with human
beings, jammed so tightly that the far wall was lost in the fog of blue
tobacco smoke and a man must shout to be heard a few feet away; the
black faces shone with sweat and excitement.  The men were miners,
drinking and singing and laughing and groping the women.  Some were very
drunk and a few had fallen to the earth floor and lay in their own
vomit.  The women were of every tribe, all of their faces painted in the
fashion of white women, dressed in flimsy gaudy dresses, singing and
dancing and shaking their hips, picking out the men with money and
tugging them away through the doors at the back of the shed.

Moses did not have to force his way through this jam of bodies. It
opened almost miraculously before him, and many of the women called to
him respectfully.  Hendrick followed closely behind his brother and he
was struck with admiration that Moses had been able to achieve this
degree of recognition in the three short months since they had arrived
on the Rand.

There was a guard at the door at the far end of the shebeen, an ugly
scar-faced ruffian, but he also recognized Moses and clapped his hands
in greeting before he pulled aside the canvas screen to allow them to go
through into the back room.

This room was less crowded, and there were tables and benches for the
customers.  The girls in here were still graced with youth, bTight-eyed
and fresh-faced.  An enormous black woman was seated at a separate table
in the corner.  She had the serene round moon face of the high-bred Zulu
but its contours were almost obscured by fat.  Her dark amber skin was
stretched tightly over this abundance; her belly hung down in a series
of fleshy balconies onto her lap, and fat hung in great black dewlaps
under her arms and formed bracelets around her wrists.  On the table in
front of her were neat stacks of coins, silver and copper, and wads of
multicoloured bank notes, and the girls were bringing her more to add to
the piles each minute.

When she saw Moses her perfect white teeth shone like precious
porcelain; she lumbered to her feet, her thighs so elephantine that she
waddled with her feet wide apart as she came to him and greeted him as
though he were a tribal chief, touching her forehead and clapping with
respect.

This is Mama Nginga, Moses told Hendrick.  She is the biggest shebeen
keeper and whore mistress on Drake's Farm.

Soon she will be the only one on Drake's Farm.  only then did Hendrick
realize that he knew most of the men at the tables.  They were Buffaloes
who had travelled on the Wenela train and taken the initiation oath with
him, and they greeted him with unfeigned delight and introduced him to
the strangers in their midst.

This is Henry Tabaka.  He is the one of the legend.  The man who slew
Tshayela, the white overseer, and Hendrick noticed the immediate respect
in the eyes of these new Buffaloes.  They were men from the other mines
along the reef, recruited by the original Buffaloes, and Hendrick saw
that on the whole they had chosen well.

My brother has not had a woman or a taste of good liquor in three
months, Moses told them as he seated himself at the head of the central
table.  Mama Nginga, we don't want your skokiaan.  She makes it herself,
he told Hendrick in a loud aside, and she puts in carbide and methylated
spirits and dead snakes and aborted babies to give it kick and flavour.
Mama Nginga screeched with laughter.  My skokiaan is famous from
Fordsburg to Bapsfontein.  Even some of the white men, the mabuni, come
for it.  It's good enough for them, Moses agreed, but not good enough
for my brother.  Mama Nginga sent one of the girls to them with a bottle
of Cape brandy and Moses seized the young girl around the waist and held
her easily.  He pulled open the European-style blouse she wore, forcing
out her big round breasts so that they shone like washed coal in the
lamplight.

This is where we start, my Buffaloes, a girl and a bottle, he told them.
There are fifty thousand lonely men at Goldi far from their wives, all
of them hungry for sweet young flesh.  There are fifty thousand men,
thirsty from their work in the earth, and the white men forbid them to
slake their thirst with this.  He shook the bottle of golden spirits.
There are fifty thousand randy thirsty black men at Goldi, all with
money in their pockets.  The Buffaloes will give them what they want. He
pushed the girl into Hendrick's lap and she coiled herself about him
with professionally simulated lust and thrust her shining black breasts
into his face.

When the dawn broke over the sprawling shanty town of Drake's Farm,
Moses and Hendrick picked their way down the reeking convoluted alleys
to where they had left the Ford and the children were guarding it still,
like jackals around the lion's kill.  The brothers had sat all night in
the back room of Mama Nginga's shebeen and the preliminary planning was
at last done.  Each of their lieutenants had been allotted areas and
responsibilities.

But there is still much work to be done, my brother, Moses told Hendrick
as he started the Ford.  We have to find the liquor and the women.  We
will have to bring all the little shebeens and brothels like goats into
our kraal, and there is only one way to do that.  I know how that has to
be done, Hendrick nodded.  And we have an impi to do it.  And an induna,
a general, to command that impi.  Moses glanced at Hendrick
significantly.  The time has come for you to leave CRC, my brother.  All
your time and your strength will be needed now.  You will waste no more
of your strength in the earth, breaking rock for a white man's pittance.
From now on you will be breaking heads for power and great fortune.  He
smiled thinly.  You will never have to pine again for those little white
stones of yours.  I will give you more, much more.  Marcus Archer
arranged for Hendrick's contract at CRC to be cancelled and for him to
be issued travel papers for one of the special trains that carried the
returning miners who had worked out their ticket back to the
reservations and the distant villages.  But Hendrick never caught that
train.  Instead he disappeared from the white man's records and was
absorbed into the shadowy halfworld of the townships.

Mama Nginga set aside one of the shanties at the back of her shebeen for
his exclusive use, and one of her girls was always on hand to sweep and
wash his laundry, to cook his food and warm his bed.

It was six days after his arrival at Drake's Farm that the Buffalo impi
opened its campaign.  The objective had been discussed and carefully
explained by Hendrick and it was simple and clear-cut.  They would make
Drake's Farm their own citadel.

On the first night twelve of the opposition shebeens were burned to the
ground.  Their proprietors burned with them, as did those of their
customers who were too drunk to crawl out of the flaming hovels. Drake's
Farm was far outside the sector served by the white man's fire engines,
so no attempt was made to fight the flames.  Rather, the inhabitants of
Drake's Farm gathered to watch the spectacle as though it was a circus
arranged particularly for their entertainment.

The children danced and shrilled in the firelight, and screeched with
laughter as the bottles of spirits exploded like fireworks.

Nearly all the girls escaped from the flames.  Those who had been at
work when the fire began ran out naked, clutching their scanty clothing
and weeping wildly at the loss of all their worldly possessions and
savings.  However, there were kindly concerned men to comfort them and
lead them away to Mama Nginga's.

Within forty-eight hours the shebeens had been rebuilt on their ashes
and the girls were back at work again.  Their lot was much improved;
they were well fed and clothed and they had their own Buffaloes to
protect them from their customers, to make certain they were neither
cheated nor abused.  of course, if they in turn shirked or tried to
cheat, they were beaten soundly; but they expected that, it made them
feel part of the totem and replaced the father and brothers they had
left in the reservations.

Hendrick allowed them to keep a fixed proportion of the fee they charged
and made sure his men respected their rights to it.

Generosity breeds loyalty and firmness a loving heart, he explained to
his Buffaloes, and he extended his happy house policy to embrace his
customers and everybody else at Drake's Farm.  The black miners coming
into the township were as carefully protected as his girls were.  In
very short order the footpads, pickpockets, muggers and other smalltime
entrepreneurs were routed out.  The quality of the liquor improved. From
now on all of it was brewed under Mama Nginga's personal supervision.

it was strong as a bull elephant, and bit like a rabid hyena, but it no
longer turned men blind or destroyed their brains, and because it was
manufactured in bulk, it was reasonably priced.  A man could get
falling-down drunk for two shillings or have a good clean girl for the
same price.

Hendrick's men met every bus and train coming in from the country
districts, bringing the young black girls who had run away from their
villages and their tribe to reach the glitter of Goldi.  They led the
pretty ones back to Drake's Farm.  When this source of supply became
inadequate as the demand increased, Hendrick sent his men into the
country districts and villages to recruit the girls at the source with
sweet words and promises of pretty things.

The city fathers of Johannesburg and the police were fully aware of the
unacknowledged halfworld of the townships that had grown up south of the
goldfields but, daunted by the prospect of closing them down and finding
alternative accommodation for thousands of vagrants and illegals, they
turned a blind eye, appeasing their civic consciences by occasional
raids, arrests and the wholesale imposition of fines.  However, as the
incidence of murder and robbery and other serious crime mysteriously
abated at Drake's Farm and it became an area of comparative calm and
order, so their condescension and forbearance became even more
pragmatic.  The police raids ceased, and the prosperity of the area
increased as its reputation as a safe and convivial place to have fun
spread amongst the tens of thousands of black mine workers along the
Rand.  When they had a pass to leave the compound, they would travel
thirty and forty miles, bypassing other centres of entertainment to
reach it.

However, there were still many hundreds of thousands of other potential
customers who could never reach Drake's Farm, and Moses Gama turned his
attention to these.

They cannot come to us, so we must go to them.  He explained to Hendrick
what must be done, and it was Hendrick who negotiated the piecemeal
purchase of a fleet of second-hand delivery vans and employed a coloured
mechanic to renovate them and keep them in running order.

Each evening convoys of these vehicles loaded with liquor and girls left
Drake's Farm, journeying down the length of the goldfields to park at
some secluded location close to the big mining properties, in a copse of
trees, a valley between the mine dumps, or an abandoned shaft building.
The guards at the gate of the mine workers compound, who were all
Buffaloes, made certain that the customers were allowed in and out, and
now every member of the Buffalo totem could share in the good fortune of
their clan.

So, my brother, do you still miss your little white stones? Moses asked
after their first two years of operation from Drake's Farm.

It was as you promised, Hendrick chuckled.  We have everything that a
man could wish for now., You are too easily satisfied, Moses chided him.

There is more?  Hendrick asked with interest.

We have only just begun, Moses told him.

What is next, my brother?  Have you heard of a trade union? Moses asked.
Do you know what it is?  Hendrick looked dubious, frowning as he thought
about it.  I know that the white men on the mines have trade unions, and
the white men on the railways also.  I have heard it spoken of, but I
know very little about them.  They are white men's business, no concern
of the likes of us.  You are wrong, my brother, Moses said quietly.  The
African Mine Workers Union is very much our concern.  It is the reason
why you and I came to Goldi!

I thought that we came for the money.  Fifty thousand union members each
paying one shilling a week union dues, isn't that money? Moses asked,
and smiled as he watched his brother make the calculation.

Avarice contorted his smile so that the broken gap in his teeth looked
like a black mine pit.

It is good money indeed!  Moses had learned from his unsuccessful
attempts to establish a mine workers union at the H'ani Mine.  The black
miners were simple souls with not the least vestige of political
awareness; they were separated by tribal loyalties; they did not
consider themselves part of a single nation.

Tribalism is the one great obstacle in our path, Moses explained to
Hendrick.  If we were one people we would be like a black ocean,
infinite in our power.  But we are not one people, Hendrick pointed out.
Any more than the white men are one people.  A Zulu is as different from
an Ovambo as a Scotsman is from a Russian Cossack or an Afrikaner from
an Englishman.  Hay!  Moses smiled.  I see you have been reading the
books I gave you.  When first we came to Goldi you had never heard of a
Russian Cossack- You have taught me much about men and the world they
live in, Hendrick agreed.  Now teach me how you will make a Zulu call an
Ovambo his brother.  Tell me how we are to take the power that is held
so firmly in the hands of the white man. 'These things are possible. The
Russian people were as diverse as we black people of Africa.  They are
Asiatics and Europeans, Tartars and Slavs, but under a great leader they
have become a single nation and have overthrown a tyranny even more
infamous than the one under which we suffer.

The black people need a leader who knows what is good for them and will
force them to it, even if ten thousand or a million die in achieving it.
A leader such as you, my brother?  Hendrick asked, and Moses smiled his
remote enigmatic smile.

The Mine Workers Union first, he said.  Like a child learning to walk,
one step at a time.  The people must be forced to do what is good for
them in the long run even though at first it is painful.  I am not sure,
Hendrick shook his great shaven round head on which the ridged scars
stood proud like polished gems of black onyx.  What is it we seek, my
brother?  Is it wealth or power?  We are fortunate, Moses answered.  You
want wealth and I want power.  The way I have chosen, each of us will
get what he desires.  Even with ruthless contingents of the Buffaloes on
each of the mine properties the process of unionization was slow and
frustrating.  By necessity much of it had to be undertaken secretly, for
the government's Industrial Conciliation Act placed severe limitations
on black labour association and specifically prohibited collective
bargaining by black workers.  There was also opposition from the workers
themselves, their natural suspicion and antagonism towards the new union
shop stewards, all of them Buffaloes, all of them appointed and not
elected; and the ordinary workers were reluctant to hand over part of
their hard-earned wages to something they neither understood nor
trusted.

However, with Dr Marcus Archer to advise and counsel them and with
Hendrick's Buffaloes to push the cause forward, slowly the unionization
of the workers on each of the various mine properties was accomplished.

The miners reluctance to part with their silver shillings was quelled.

There were, of course, casualties, and some men died, but at last there
were over twenty thousand dues-paying members of the African Mine
Workers Union.

The Chamber of Mines, the association of mining interests, found itself
presented with a fait accompli.  The members were at first alarmed;
their natural instinct was to destroy this cancer immediately.

However, the Chamber members were first and above all else businessmen,
concerned with getting the yellow metal to the surface with as little
fuss as possible and with paying regular dividends to their
shareholders.  They understood what havoc a labour battle could wreak
amongst their interests, so they held their first cautious informal
talks with the nonexistent union and were most gratified to find the
self-styled secretary general to be an intelligent articulate and
reasonable person.

There was no trace of Bolshevik dialectic in his statements, and far
from being radical and belligerent, he was cooperative and respectful in
his address.

He is a man we can work with, they told each other.  He seems to have
influence.  We've needed a spokesman for the workers and he seems a
decent enough sort.  We could have done a lot worse.  We can manage this
chap.  And sure enough, their very first meetings had excellent results
and they were able to solve a few small vexing long-term problems to the
satisfaction of the union and the profit of the mine owners.

After that the informal, unrecognized union had the Chamber's tacit
acceptance, and when a problem arose with their labour the Chamber sent
for Moses Garna and it was swiftly settled.  Each time this happened,
Moses position became more securely entrenched.  And, of course, there
was never even a hint at strikes or any form of militancy on the union's
part.

Do you understand, my brothers?  Moses explained to the first meeting of
his central committee of the African Mine Workers Union held in Mama
Nginga's shebeen.  If they come down upon us with their full strength
while we are still weak, we will be destroyed for all time. This man
Smuts is a devil, and he is truly the steel in the government's spear.

He did not hesitate to send his troops with machine-guns against the
white union strikers in 1922.  What would he do to black strikers, my
brothers?  He would water the earth with our blood.  No, we must lull
them.  Patience is the great strength of our people.  We have a hundred
years, while the white man lives only for the day.  In time the black
ants of the veld build mountains and devour the carcass of the elephant.
Time is our weapon, and time is the white man's enemy. Patience, my
brothers, and one day the white man will discover that we are not oxen
to be yoked into the traces of his wagon.  He will discover rather that
we are black-maned lions, fierce eaters of white flesh.  How swiftly the
years have passed us by since we rode on Tshayela's train from the
deserts of the west to the flat shining mountains of Goldi.  Hendrick
watched the mine dumps on the skyline as Moses drove the old Ford
through the sparse traffic of a Sunday morning.  He drove sedately, not
too slow not too fast, obeying the traffic rules, stopping well in
advance of the changing traffic lights, those wonders of the
technological age which had only been installed on the main routes
within the last few months.  Moses always drove like this.

Never draw attention to yourself unnecessarily, my brother, he advised
Hendrick.  Never give a white policeman an excuse to stop you.

He hates you already for driving a motor car that he cannot afford
himself.  Never put yourself in his power.  The road skirted the rolling
fairways of the Johannesburg Country Club, oases of green in the brown
veld, watered and groomed and mown until they were velvet green carpets
on which the white golfers strolled in their foursomes followed by their
barefooted caddies.  Further back amongst the trees the white walls of
the club house gleamed, and Moses slowed the Ford and turned at the
bottom of the club property where the road crossed the tiny dry Sand
Spruit river and the signpost said Rivonia Farm'.

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 small-holdings, 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
forever 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
Mafakuzela, 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 him 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 night

fall, 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 highveld 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 newssheet, 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 tool-shed and stumbled down the path to
the outhouse against the moroto hedge he would look up and through
sleep-blurred eyes see the larnplight 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 fingered.

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, Dlease, Oom?  Looks
like you are in already.  Uncle Tromp tried to look stern.  You might as
well stay then.  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 fly-leaf 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.

Manfred read the book in three successive nights, sitting UP until long
after midnight with a blanket over his shoulders, squinting in the
flickering candlelight.  It was five hundred pages of close print,
larded with quotation from holy scripture, but it was written in strong
simple language, not weighed down with adjectives or excessive
description and it sang directly to Manfred's heart.  He finished it
bursting with pride for the courage and fortitude and piety of his
people, and burning with anger for the cruel manner in which they had
been persecuted and dispossessed by their enemies.  He sat with the
closed book in his lap, staring into the wavering shadows, living in
full detail the wanderings and suffering of his young nation, sharing
the agony at the barricades when the black heathen hordes poured down
upon them with war plumes tossing and the silver steel of the assegais
drumming on rawhide shields like the surf of a gale-driven sea, sharing
the wonder of voyaging out over the grassy ocean of the high continent
into a beautiful wilderness unspoiled and unpeopled to take it as their
own, finally sharing the bitter torment as the free land was wrested
from them again by arrogant foreigners in their warlike legions and the
final outrage of slavery, political and economic, was thrust upon them
in their own land, the land that their fathers had won and in which they
had been born.

As though the lad's rage had reached out and summoned him, Uncle Tromp
came down the pathway, his footsteps crunching on the gravel, and
stooped into the shed.  He paused in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to
the candle-light, and then he crossed to where Manfred crouched on the
bed.

The mattress sagged and squeaked as he lowered his bulk upon it.

They sat in silence for a full five minutes before Uncle Tromp asked,
So, you managed to finish it then?  Manfred had to shake himself back to
the present.  I think it is the most important book ever written, he
whispered.

Just as important as the Bible.  That is blasphemy, Jong.  Uncle Tromp
tried to look stern, but his gratification softened the line of his
mouth and Manfred did not apologize.

Instead he went on eagerly, For the first time ever I know who I am, and
why I am here.  Then my efforts have not been wasted, Uncle Tromp
murmured and they were silent again until the old man sighed. 'Writing a
book is a lonely thing, he mused.  Like crying with all your heart into
the night when there is nobody out there in the darkness, nobody to hear
your cry, nobody to answer you.  I heard you, Uncle Tromp.  Ja, jong, so
you did, but only you.  However, Uncle Tromp was wrong.  There were
other listeners out there in the darkness.

The arrival of a stranger in the village was an event; the arrival of
three strangers together was without parallel or precedent and raised a
storm of gossip and speculation that had the entire population in a
fever of curiosity.

The strangers arrived from the south on the weekly mail train. Taciturn
and granite-faced, dressed in severe dark broadcloth and carrying their
own carpet bags, they crossed the road from the railway siding to the
tiny iron-roofed boarding house run by the widow Vorster and were not
seen again until Sunday morning when they emerged to stride down the
rutted sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder, grim and devout, wearing the
white neckties and black suits of deacons of the Dutch Reformed Church
and carrying their black leatherbound prayer books under their right
arms like sabres, ready to unsheath and wield upon Satan and all his
works.

They stalked down the aisle and took the front pew beneath the pulpit as
if by right, and the families who had sat on those benches for
generations made no demur but quietly found places for themselves at the
rear of the nave.

Rumours of the presence of the strangers, they had already been dubbed
the three wise men, had permeated to the remotest surrounding districts
and even those who had not been inside the church in years, drawn by
curiosity, now packed all the pews and even stood against the walls.

It was a better turnout even than last Dingaan's Day, the Day of the
Covenant with God in thanksgiving for victory over the Zulu hordes and
one of the most sacred occasions in the calendar of the Reformed Church.

The singing was impressive.  Manfred stood beside Sarah and was so
touched by the crystalline beauty of her sweet contralto that he was
inspired to underscore it with his untrained but ringing tenor.  Even
under the deep hood of her traditional Voortrekker bonnet Sarah looked
like an angel, golden blonde and lovely, her features shining with
religious ecstasy.  At fourteen years her womanhood was just breaking
into tender uncertain bloom so that Manfred felt a strange
breathlessness when he glanced at her over the hymn book they were
sharing and she looked up and smiled at him with so much trust and
adoration.

The hymn ended and the congregation settled down through a scraping of
feet and muted coughing into a tense expectant silence. Uncle Tromp's
sermons were renowned throughout South-West Africa, the best
entertainment in the territory after the new moving-picture house in
Windhoek which very few of them had dared to enter, and Uncle Tromp was
in high fettle this day, provoked by the three sober-faced inscrutable
gentlemen in the front row who had not even had the common decency to
make a courtesy call at the pastory since arriving.  He leaned his great
gnarled fists on the rail of the pulpit and hunched over them like a
prize fighter taking his guard, then he glanced down on his congregation
with outraged contempt and they quailed before him with tremulous
delight, knowing exactly what that expression presaged.

Sinners!  Uncle Tromp let fly with a bellow that rang against the roof
timbers and the three dark-suited strangers jumped in their seats as
though a cannon had been fired under them.  The House of God is filled
with unrepentant sinners, and Uncle Tromp was away; he flailed them with
dreadful accusations, raking them with that special tone which Manfred
thought of privately as the voice and then lulling them with gentle
sonorous passages and promises of salvation before again hurling threats
of brimstone and damnation at them like fiery spears, until some of the
women were weeping openly and there were hoarse spontaneous cries of
Amen and Praise the Lord and Hallelujah and in the end they went down
trembling on their knees as he prayed for their very souls.

Afterwards they streamed out of the church with a sort of nervous
relief, garrulous and gay as though they had just survived some deadly
natural phenomenon such as earthquake or gale at sea.  The three
strangers were the last to leave, and at the door where Uncle Tromp
waited to greet them they shook his hand and each of them spoke quietly
and seriously to him in their turn.

Uncle Tromp listened to them gravely, then turned to consult briefly
with Aunt Trudi before turning back to them.

I would be honoured if you would enter my home and sit at my board.  The
four men paced in dignified procession up to the pastory, Aunt Trudi and
the children following at a respectful distance.  She muttered terse
instructions to the girls as they walked and the minute they were out of
public view they scampered away to open the drapes in the dining-room,
which was only used on very special occasions, and to move the dinner
setting from the kitchen to the heavy stinkwood dining-table that was
Trudi's inheritance from her mother.

The three strangers did not allow their deep erudite discussion to
interfere with their appreciation of Aunt Trudi's cooking, and at the
bottom of the table the children ate in dutiful but goggle-eyed silence.
Afterwards the men drank their coffee and smoked a pipe on the front
stoep, the drone of their voices soporific in the midday heat, and then
it was time to return to divine worship.

The text that Uncle Tromp had chosen for his second sermon was 'The Lord
has made straight a path for you in the wilderness'.  He delivered it
with all his formidable rhetoric and power, but this time he included
passages from his own book, assuring his congregation that the Lord had
chosen them particularly as a people and set aside a place for them.  It
remained only for them to reclaim that place in this land that was their
heritage.  More than once Manfred saw the three grim-faced strangers
sitting in the front pew glance at one another significantly as Uncle
Tromp was speaking.

The strangers left on the southbound mail train on Monday mornin& and
for the days and weeks that followed a brittle sense of expectancy
pervaded the pastory.  Uncle Tromp, breaking his usual custom, took to
waiting at the front gate to greet the postman each morning.  Quickly he
would peruse the packet of mail, and each day his disappointment became
more obvious.

Three weeks passed before he gave up waiting for the postman.  So he was
in the tool-shed with Manfred, drilling the Fitzsimmons shift into him,
honing that savage left hand of Manfred's, when the letter finally
arrived.

it was lying on the hall table when Uncle Tromp went up to the house to
wash for supper, and Manfred, who had walked up with him, saw him blanch
when he observed the seal of the high moderator of the church on the
flap of the envelope.  He snatched up the envelope and hurried into his
study, slamming the door in Manfred's face.  The lock turned with a
heavy chink.  Aunt Trudi had to wait supper almost twenty minutes before
he emerged again, and his grace, full of praise and thanksgiving was
twice its usual length.  Sarah rolled her eyes and squinted comically
across the table at Manfred, and he cautioned her with a quick frown. At
last Uncle Tromp roared Amen'.  Yet he still did not take up his
soupspoon but beamed down the length of the table at Aunt Trudi.

My dear wife,he said.  You have been patient and uncomplaining all these
years.  Aunt Trudi blushed scarlet.  Not in front of the children,
Meneer, she whispered, but Uncle Tromp's smile grew broader still.

They have given me Stellenbosch, he told her, and the silence was
complete.  They stared at him incredulously.

Every one of them understood what he was saying.

Stellenbosch, Uncle Tromp repeated, mouthing the word, rolling it over
his tongue, gargling it in his throat as though it were the first taste
of a rare and noble wine.

Stellenbosch was a small country town thirty miles from Cape Town.

The buildings were gabled in the Dutch style, thatched and whitewashed,
as dazzling as snow.  The streets were broad and lined with the fine
oaks that Governor Van der Stel had ordered his burghers to plant back
in the seventeenth century.  Around the town the vineyards of the great
chateaux were laid out in a marvelous patchwork and the dark precipices
of the mountains rose in a heaven-high backdrop beyond.

A small country town, pretty and picturesque, but it was also the very
citadel of Afrikanerdom, enshrined in the university whose faculties
were grouped beneath the green oaks and the protecting mountain
barricades.  It was the centre of Afrikaner intellectualism. Here their
language had been forged and was still being crafted.  Here their
theologians pondered and debated.  Tromp Bierman himself had studied
beneath Stellenbosch's dreaming oaks.  All the great men had trained
here: Louis Botha, Hertzog, Jan Christian Smuts.  No one who was not
Stellenbosch had ever headed the government of the Union of South
Africa.  Very few who were not Stellenbosch men had even served in the
cabinet.  It was the Oxford and Cambridge of southern Africa, and they
had given the parish to Tromp Bierman.  It was an honour unsurpassed,
and now the doors would open before him.  He would sit at the centre; he
would wield power, and the promise of greater power; he would become one
of the movers, the innovators.  Everything now became possible: the
Council of the Synod, the moderatorship itself; none of these were
beyond his grasp.  There were no limits now, no borders nor boundaries.
Everything was possible.

It was the book, Aunt Trudi breathed.  I never thought.

I never understood Yes, it was the book, Uncle Tromp chuckled. 'And
thirty years of hard work.  We will have the big manse on Eikeboom
Straat and a thousand a year.  Each of the children will have a separate
room and a place at the university paid for by the church.  I will
preach to the mighty men of the land and our brightest young minds.  I
will be on the University Council.

And you, my dear wife, will have professors and ministers of government
at your table; their wives will be your companions, he broke off
guiltily and now we will all pray.

We will ask God for humility; we will ask him to save us from the mortal
sins of pride and avarice.  Down everybody!  he roared.  Down on your
knees.  The soup was cold before he allowed them up again.

They left two months later, after Uncle Tromp had handed over his duties
to the young dominie fresh from the theology faculty of the university
where the old man was now taking them.

It seemed that every man and woman and child from within a hundred miles
was at the station to see them off.

Manfred had not realized until that moment just how high was the
affection and esteem in which the community held Uncle Tromp.  The men
all wore their church suits and each of them shook his hand, gruffly
thanked him and wished him Godspeed.  Some of the women wept and all of
them brought gifts, they had baskets of jams and preserves, of milk
tarts and koeksisters, bags of kudu biltong, and enough food to feed an
army on the journey southwards.

Four days later the family changed trains at the central Cape Town
railway station.  There was barely time for them to troop out into
Adderley Street and gape up at the legendary flat-topped massif of Table
Mountain that towered over the city before they had to rush back and
clamber aboard the coach for the much shorter leg of the journey across
the Cape flats and through the sprawling vineyards towards the
mountains.

The deacons of the church and half the congregation were on the platform
at Stellenbosch station to welcome them, and the family discovered very
swiftly that the pace of all their lives had changed dramatically.

From almost the first day, Manfred was totally immersed in preparations
for the entrance examinations of the university.  He studied from early
morning until late every night for two months and then sat the
examinations over a single painful week and lived through an even more
painful week waiting for the results to be posted.  He passed first in
German language, third in mathematics and eighth overall, the habits of
study he had learned over the years in the Bierman household now bearing
full fruit, and was accepted into the faculty of law for the semester
beginning at the end of January.

Aunt Trudi was strongly opposed to his leaving the manse and entering
one of the university residences for men.  As she pointed out, he had a
fine room to himself now; the girls would miss him to the point of
distraction, by implication she was included amongst those who would
suffer, and even on Uncle Tromp's now princely stipend, the residence
fees would be a burden on the family exchequer.

Uncle Tromp called upon the university registrar and made some financial
arrangements which were never discussed in the family and then came down
strongly on Manfred's side.

Living in a house full of women will drive the boy mad in time. He
should go where he can benefit from the company of other young men and
from the full life of the university.  So, on 25 January, Manfred
eagerly presented himself at the imposing Cape Dutch style residence for
gentlemen students, Rust en Vrede.  The name translated as Rest and
Peace', and within the first few minutes of arrival he realized just how
ironic was the choice for he was caught up in the barbaric ritual of
freshman initiation.

His name was taken from him and he was given instead the sobriquet of
Poep; which he shared with the nineteen other freshmen of the house.

This translated freely as flatus'.  He was forbidden to use the pronouns
Y or me but only this flatus', and he had to request permission not only
of the senior men for every action but also of all inanimate objects he
encountered in the residence.  Thus he was obliged to utter endless
inanities: Honourable door, this flatus wishes to pass through, or
Honourable toilet, this flatus wishes to sit upon you.  Within the
residence he and his fellow freshmen were not allowed normal means of
perambulation but were made to walk backwards, even down stairs, at all
times.  They were held incommunicado from friends and family and in
particular were most strenuously forbidden to talk to anybody of the
opposite sex; if they were caught so much as looking in the general
direction of a pretty girl a warning notice was hung around their necks
and could not be removed even in the bath.  Beware!  Sex maniac at
large.  Their rooms were raided by the seniors every hour, on the hour,
from six in the evening until six in the morning.  All their bedding was
piled in the middle of the floor and soaked with water, their books and
possessions were swept from the shelves and turned out of the drawers
and piled on the sodden blankets.  The senior men performed this duty in
shifts until the shivering freshmen took to sleeping on the bare tiles
of the passage outside their bedrooms, leaving the chaos within to mould
and fester.  Whereupon the senior student, a lordly fourth-year honours
man named Roelf Stander, held a formal house committee inspection of the
rooms.

You are the most disgusting cloud of flatus ever to disgrace this
university, he told them at the end of the inspection.  You have one
hour in which to make your rooms spotless and put them in perfect order,
after which you will be taken on a route march as punishment for your
slovenly attitude.  it was midnight when Roelf Stander finally announced
that he was satisfied with the condition of their bedrooms and they were
prepared for the route march.

This involved stripping them to their underpants, placing a pillow case
over their heads, tying them in Indian file with a rope around their
necks and their hands strapped behind their backs and marching them
through the streets of the sleeping town and out into the mountains. The
chosen route was rough and stony and when one of them fell he brought
down the freshmen in front and behind.  At four in the morning they were
led back into town on bleeding feet and with their throats chafed raw
from the coarse hemp rope to find their rooms had been raided once again
and that Roelf Stander's next inspection would take place at five
o'clock.  The first lecture of the university day began at seven.  There
was no time for breakfast.

All this came under the heading of good clean fun; the university
authorities turned a blind eye upon the rites on the grounds that boys
will be boys and that the initiation ritual was a university tradition,
instilling a community Spirit into the new arrivals. However, in this
climate of indulgence the bullies and sadists who lurk in any community
took full advantage of

the sanction accorded them.  There were a few merciless

beatings, and one freshman was tarred and feathered.  Mannfred had heard
light talk of this punishment, but had not been able to imagine the
dreadful agony that it inflicted when the victim's skin was sealed and
his scalp and body hair matted and coated with hot tar.  The boy was
hospitalized and never returned to the university, but the affair was
hushed up completely.

Other freshmen dropped out in those first weeks, for the self-appointed
guardians of the university tradition made no allowance for delicate
physical or mental constitutions.  One of the victims, an asthmatic, was
judged guilty of insubordination by the seniors and was sentenced to
formal drowning.

This sentence was carried out in the bathroom of the residence. The
victim was pinioned by four hefty seniors and lowered headfirst into the
toilet bowl of the lavatory.

Two fifth-year medical students were present to monitor the victim's
pulse and heartbeat during the punishment, but they had not made
allowance for his asthma, and the drowning almost ended as the real
thing.  only frantic efforts by the budding doctors and an intravenous
injection of stimulant started the boy's heart beating again; he left
the university next day, like the other dropouts, never to return.

Manfred, despite his size and physique and good looks, which made him a
natural target, was able to bridle his anger and check his tongue.  He
submitted stoically even to extreme provocation until in the second week
of torment a note was pinned on the board in the residence common room:
all flatus will report to the university gymnasium at 4 pm on Saturday
to try out for the boxing squad.

Signed: Roelf Stander Captain of Boxing Each of the university
residences specialized in some particular sport: one was the rugby
football house, another was field and track; but Rust en Vrede's sport
was boxing.  This, together with the fact that it was Uncle Tromp's old
house, was the reason why Manfred had applied for admission in the first
place.

It was also the reason why the interest in the freshmen try-out was far
beyond anything that Manfred had expected.

At least three hundred spectators were assembled, and the seats around
the ring were all filled by the time that Manfred and his fellow flatus
arrived at the gymnasium.  Marshalled by one of the senior men into a
crocodile column, they were marched to the changing-rooms and given five
minutes to change into tennis shoes, shorts and vests, then lined up
against the lockers in order of height.

Roelf Stander strolled down the rank, glancing at the fist in his hand
and making the matchings.  It was obvious that he had been studying them
during the preceding weeks and grading their potential. Manfred, the
tallest and sturdiest of all the freshmen, was at the end of the line,
and Roelf Stander stopped in front of him last.

There is no other fart as loud and smelly as this one, he announced, and
then was silent for a moment as he studied Manfred. 'What do you weigh,
Flatus?  This flatus is light heavyweight, sir, and Roelf's eyes
narrowed slightly.  He had already singled Manfred out as the best
prospect and now the technical jargon heartened him.

Have you boxed before, Flatus?  he demanded, and then pulled a wry face
at the disappointing reply.

This flatus has never boxed a match, sir, but this flatus has had some
practice.

A Oh, all right, then!  I am heavyweight.  But as there is no

one else to give you a match, I'll go a few rounds with you, if you
promise to treat me lightly, Flatus.  Roeff Stander was captain of the
university squad, amateur provincial champion and one of South Africa's
better prospects for the team which would go to Berlin for the Olympic
Games in 1936.  It was a rich joke cracked by a senior student and
everybody laughed slavishly.  Even Roelf could not hide a grin at his
own preposterous plea for mercy.

All right, we'll begin with the fly-weights, he continued, and led them
out into the gymnasium.

The freshmen were seated on a long bench at the back of the hall with an
imperfect view of the ring over the heads of the more privileged
spectators as Roelf and his assistants, all members of the boxing squad,
put the gloves on the first trialists and led them down the aisle to the
ring.

While this was going on Manfred became aware of somebody in the front
row of seats standing and trying to catch his eye.  He glanced around at
the senior men who were in charge of them, but their attention was on
the ring so for the first time he looked directly at the person in the
crowd.

He had forgotten how pretty Sarah was, either that or she had blossomed
in the weeks since he had last seen her.  Her eyes sparkled and her
cheeks were flushed with excitement as she waved a lace handkerchief and
mouthed his name happily.

He kept his expression inscrutable, but lowered one eyelid at her in a
furtive wink and she blew him a two-handed kiss and dropped back into
her seat beside the mountainous bulk of Uncle Tromp.

They have both come!  The knowledge cheered him enormously; until that
moment he had not realized how lonely these last weeks had been. Uncle
Tromp turned his head and grinned at him, his teeth very white in the
frosted black bush of his beard; then he turned back to face the ring.

The first bout began: two game little flyweights going at each other in
a flurry of blows, but one was outclassed and soon there was blood
sprinkling the canvas.  Roelf Stander stopped it in the second round and
patted the loser on the back.

Well done!  No shame in losing.  The other bouts followed, all of them
spirited, the fighters obviously doing their very best, but apart from a
promising middleweight, it was all very rough and unskilled.  At last
Manfred was the only one on the bench.

All right, FlatusF The senior laced his gloves and told him: 'Let's see
what you can do.  Manfred slipped the towel off his shoulders and stood
up just as Roelf Stander climbed back into the ring from the
changing-room end.  He now wore the maroon vest and trunks piped with
gold that were Varsity colours, and on his feet were expensive boots of
glove leather laced high over the ankles.  He held up both gloved hands
to quieten the whistles and good-natured cheers.

Ladies and Gentlemen.  We do not have a match for our last trialist; no
other freshman in his weight division.  So if you will be kind enough to
bear with me, I'm going to take him through his paces. The cheers broke
out again, but now there were shouts of Go easy on him, Roelf, and Don't
kill the poor beggar!  Roelf waved his assurance of mercy at them,
concentrating on the section of seats filled with girls from the women's
residences, and there were muted squeals and giggles an a tossing of
permanently waved coiffures, for Roelf stood six feet, with a square
jaw, white teeth and flashing dark eyes.

His hair was thick and wavy and gleaming with Brylcreem, his sideburns
dense and curling and his mustache dashing as a cavalier's.

As Manfred reached the front row of seats he could not restrain himself
from glancing sideways at Sarah and Uncle Tromp.  Sarah was hopping her
bottom up and down on her seat, and she pressed her clenched fists to
cheeks that were rosy with excitement.

Get him, Manie, she cried.  Vat hoM!  and beside her Uncle Tromp nodded
at him.  Fast as a mamba, jong!  Brave as a ratel he rumbled so that
only Manfred could hear; and Manfred lifted his chin and there was a new
lightness in his feet as he ducked through the ropes into the ring.

One of the other seniors had taken over the duty of referee: In this
corner at one hundred and eighty-five pounds the captain of Varsity and
amateur heavyweight champion of the Cape of Good Hope, Roelf Stander!
And in this corner at one hundred and seventy-three pounds a freshman,
in deference to the delicate company, he did not use the full honorific,
Manfred De La Rey.  The timekeeper struck his gong and Roelf came out of
his corner dancing lightly, ducking and weaving, smiling thinly over his
red leather gloves as they circled each other.  just out of striking
distance, around they went, and then back the other way, and the smile
left Roelf's lips and they tightened into a straight thin line.  His
light manner evaporated; he had not expected this.

There was no weak place in the guard of the man who faced him; his
cropped golden head was lowered on muscled shoulders, and he moved on
his feet like a cloud.

He's a fighter!  Roelf's anger flared.  He lied, he knows what he's
doing.  He tried once more to command the centre of the ring, but was
forced to turn out again as his adversary moved threateningly into his
left.

As yet neither of them had thrown a punch, but the cheers of the crowd
subsided.  They sensed that they were watching something extraordinary;
they saw Roelf's casual attitude change, saw deadly intent come into the
way he was moving now; and those who knew him well saw the little lines
of worry and perturbation at the corners of his mouth and eyes.

Roelf flicked out his left, a testing shot, and the other man did not
even deign to duck; he turned it off his glove contemptuously, and
Roelf's skin prickled with shock as he sensed the power in that fleeting
contact and looked deeply into Manfred's eyes.  It was a trick of his,
establishing domination by eye contact.

This man's eyes were a strange light colour, like topaz or yellow
sapphire, and Roelf remembered the eyes of a calfkilling leopard that
his father had caught in a steel spring trap in the hills above the farm
homestead.  These were the same eyes, and now they altered, they burned
with a cold golden light, implacable and inhuman.

It was not fear that clenched Roelf Stander's chest but rather a
premonition of terrible danger.  This was an animal in the ring with
him.  He could see the hunger in its eyes, a great killing hunger, and
he struck out at it instinctively.

He used his left, his good hand, driving in hard at those pitiless
yellow eyes.  The blow died in the air and he tried desperately to
recover, but his left elbow was raised, his flank was open for perhaps a
hundredth part of a second, and something exploded inside of him.  He
did not see the fist; he did not recognize it as a punch, for he had
never been hit like that before.  It felt as though it was inside him,
bursting through his ribs, tearing out his viscera, imploding his lungs,
driving the wind out of his throat in a hissing agony as he was flung
backwards.

The ropes caught him in the small of the back and under the
shoulderblades and hurled him forward again like a stone from a
slingshot.  Time seemed to slow down to a trickle; his vision was
enhanced, magnified as though there was a drug in his blood, and this
time he saw the fist; he had a weird flash of fantasy that it was not
flesh and bone but black iron in that glove, and his flesh quailed. But
he was powerless to avoid it and this time the shock was even greater,
unbelievable, beyond his wildest imaginings.  He felt something tear
inside him and the bones of his legs melted like hot candlewax.

He wanted to scream at the agony of it, but even in his extremity he
choked it off.  He wanted to go down, to get down on the canvas before
the fist came again, but the ropes held him up and his body seemed to
shatter like crystal as the gloved hand crashed into him and the ropes
flung him forward.

His hands dropped away from his face and he saw the fist coming yet
again.  It seemed to balloon before his eyes, filling his vision, but he
did not feel it strike.

Roelf was moving into it with all his weight and his skull snapped back
in whiplash against the tension of his spinal column and then dropped
forward again and he went down on his face like a dead man and lay
without a tremor of movement on the white canvas.

It was all over in seconds, the crowd sitting in stunned silence,
Manfred still weaving and swaying over the prostrate figure that lay at
his feet, his features contorted into a mask of savagery and that
strange yellow light glowing in his eyes, not yet human, with the
killing sickness still strong upon him.

Then in the crowd a woman screamed and instantly there was consternation
and uproar.  The men were up on their feet, chairs crashing over
backwards, roaring in bewilderment and amazement and jubilation, rushing
forward, clambering through the ropes, surrounding Manfred, pounding his
back, others on their knees beside the maroon-and-goldclad figure lying
deathly still on the canvas, jabbering instructions at one another as
they lifted him gingerly, one of them dabbing ineffectually at the
blood; all of them stunned and shaken.

The women were pale-faced with shock, some of them still screaming with
delicious horror, their eyes bright with excitation which was tinged
with sexuality, craning to watch as Roelf Stander was lifted over the
ropes and carried down the aisle, hanging limp as a corpse, his head
lolling, blood running back from his slack mouth across his cheek into
his gleaming hair, turning to watch Manfred as he was hustled along to
the changing-rooms by a group of seniors.

The women's faces betrayed fear and horror but some of their eyes
smouldered with physical arousal, and one of them reached out to touch
Manfred's shoulder as he passed.

Uncle Tromp took Sarah's arm to calm her, for she was capering and
shrilling like a dervish, and led her out of the hall into the sunlight.
She was still incoherent with excitement.

He was wonderful, so quick, so beautiful.  Oh, Uncle Tromp, I have never
seen anything like that in my life.  Isn't he wonderful? Uncle Tromp
grunted but made no comment, listening to her chatter all the way back
to the manse.  Only when they climbed the front steps onto the wide
stoep did he stop and look back, as though to a place or a person that
he was leaving with deep regret.

His life has changed, and ours will change with him, he murmured
soberly.  I pray Almighty God that none of us ever lives to regret what
happened to us this day, for I am the one who brought this about. For
three more days the ritual of initiation continued, and Manfred was
still denied contact with anybody but his fellow freshmen.  However, to
them he had become a godlike figure, their very hope of salvation, and
they crowded to him pathetically through the final humiliations and
degradation to take strength and determination from him.

The last night was the worst.  Blindfolded and denied sleep, forced to
sit unflinching on a narrow beam, a galvanized bucket over their heads
against which a senior would crack a club unexpectedly, the night seemed
to last for ever.  Then in the dawn the buckets and blindfolds were
removed and Roelf Stander addressed them.

Then!  he started, and they blinked with shock at being called that, for
they were still in a stupor from lack of sleep and half deafened by the
blows on their buckets.  Then!  Stander repeated.  We are proud of you,
you are the best damned bunch of freshers we've had in this house since
I was a fresher myself.  You took everything we could throw at you and
never squealed or funked it.  Welcome to Rust en Vrede; this is your
house now, and we are your brothers.  And then the seniors were swarming
around them, laughing and slapping their backs and embracing them.

Come on, men!  Down to the pub.  We are buying the beer!  Roelf Stander
bellowed and, a hundred strong, arms linked, singing the house song,
they marched down to the old Drosdy Hotel and pounded on the locked door
until I the publican in defiance of licensing hours finally gave in and
opened up for them.

Light-headed with sleeplessness and with a pint of lager in his belly,
Manfred was grinning owlishly and hanging surreptitiously onto the bar
counter to keep on his feet when he had a feeling that something was up.
He turned quickly.

The crowd around him had opened, leaving a corridor down which Roelf
Stander was stalking towards him, grimfaced and threatening. Manfred's
pulse raced as he realized that this was to be their first confrontation
since that in the ring three days before, and it was not going to be
pleasant.

He set down his empty tankard, shook his head to clear it and turned to
face the other man, and they glowered at each other.

Roelf stopped in front of him, and the others, freshers and seniors,
crowded close so as not to miss a single word.  The suspense drew out
for long seconds, nobody daring to breathe.

There are two things I want to do to you, Roelf Stander growled, and
then, as Manfred braced himself, he smiled, a flashing charming smile,
and held out his right hand.  First, I want to shake your hand, and
second, I want to buy you a beer.

By God, Manie, you punch like no man I've ever fought before. There was
a howl of laughter and the day dissolved into a haze of beer fumes and
good fellowship.

That should have been the end of it, because even though formal
initiation had ended and Manfred had been accepted into the Rust en
Vrede fraternity, there was still a vast social divide between a
fourth-year honours man, senior student and captain of boxing, and a
freshman.  However, the following evening, an hour before house dinner,
there was a knock on Manie's door and Roelf sauntered in dressed in his
academic gown and hood, dropped into the single armchair, crossed his
ankles on top of Manie's desk and chatted easily about boxing and law
studies and South-West Africa geography until the gong sounded, when he
stood up.

I'll wake you at five am tomorrow for roadwork.  We've got an important
match against the Ikeys in two weeks, he announced, and then grinned at
Manie's expression.  Yes, Manie, you are on the squad. After that Roelf
dropped in every evening before dinner, often with a black bottle of
beer in the pocket of his gown which they shared out of tooth mugs, and
each time their friendship became more relaxed and secure.

This was not lost on the other members of the house, both seniors and
freshers, and Manie's status was enhanced.

Two weeks later the match against the Ikey team was contested in four
weight divisions and Manie donned the university colours for the first
time.  Ikeys was the nickname for the students at the University of Cape
Town, the Englishlanguage university of the Cape and traditional rival
of Stellenbosch, the Afrikaans-language university whose men were
nicknamed Maties.  So keen was the rivalry between them that Ikey
supporters came out the thirty miles in busloads, dressed in their
university colours, full of beer and rowdy enthusiasm, and packed out
half the gymnasium, roaring their university songs at the Matie
supporters on the other side of the hall.

Manie's opponent was Laurie King, an experienced light-heavy with good
hands and a concrete jaw who had never been put down in forty amateur
bouts.  Almost nobody had ever heard of Manfred De La Rey, and those few
who

had now discounted his single victory as a lucky punch on an opponent
who wasn't taking it seriously anyway.

Laurie King, however, had heard the story and he was taking it very
seriously indeed.  He kept off for most of the first round until the
crowd started to boo with impatience.

However, he had now studied Manfred and decided that, although he moved
well, he wasn't as dangerous as he had been warned and that he could be
taken with a left to the head.  He went in to test this theory.  The
last thing he remembered was a pair of ferocious yellow eyes, burning
like a Kalahari sun at midday into his face, and then the harsh canvas
grazing the skin from his cheek as he slammed head first into the boards
of the ring.  He never remembered seeing the punch. Although the gong
rang before he was counted out, Laurie King could not come out for the
second round; his head was still rolling like a drunkard's.  He had to
be supported by his seconds back to the dressing-room.

In the front row Uncle Tromp roared like a wounded bull buffalo while
beside him Sarah shrieked herself hoarse as tears of joy and excitement
wet her lashes and shone upon her cheeks.

The next morning the boxing correspondent of the Afrikaans newspaper Die
Burger, The Citizen', dubbed Manfred The Lion of the Kalahari and
mentioned that he was not only the great nephew of General Jacobus
Hercules De La Rey, hero of the Volk, but also related to the Reverend
Tromp Bierman, boxing champion, author, and the new dominie of
Stellenbosch.

Roelf Stander and the entire boxing squad were waiting in the quadrangle
when Manfred came out of his sociology lecture and they surrounded him.

You've been holding out on us, Manie, Roelf accused furiously. 'You
never told us that your uncle is the Tromp Bierman.  Sweet mercy, man,
he was national champion for five years.  He knocked out both Slater and
Black Jephta!

Didn't I tell you?  Manie frowned thoughtfully.  It must have slipped my
mind., Manie, you have to introduce us, the vice-captain pleaded.  We
all want to meet him, please, man, please.  Do you think he would coach
the team, Manie?  Won't you ask him.  Hell, if we had Tromp Bierman as
coach Roelf broke off, awed into silence by the thought.

,I tell you what, Manie suggested.  If you can get the whole boxing team
to church on Sunday morning, I'm sure that my Aunt Trudi will invite us
all to Sunday lunch.  I tell you, gentlemen, you don't know what heaven
is until you have tasted my Aunt Trudi's koek-sisters.  So scrubbed and
shaven and Brylcreerned and buttoned into their Sunday-best suits, the
university boxing squad took up a full pew of the church, and their
responses and rendition of the hymns shook the roof timbers.

Aunt Trudi looked upon the occasion as a challenge to her culinary
skills and she and the girls took all week to prepare the dinner.  The
guests, all lusty young men in peak physical condition, had existed on
university fare for weeks, and they gazed in ravenous disbelief upon the
banquet, trying valiantly to divide their attention between Uncle Tromp,
who was in top form at the head of the long table recounting his most
memorable fights, the tittering blushing daughters of the house who
waited upon them and the groaning board piled with roasts and preserves
and puddings.

At the end of the meal Roelf Stander, bloated like a python which had
swallowed a gazelle, rose to make a speech of thanks on behalf of the
team, and halfway through changed it into an impassioned plea to Uncle
Tromp to accept the duties of honorary coach.

Uncle Tromp waved away the request with a jovial chortle as though it
were totally unthinkable, but the entire team, including Manie, added
their entreaties, whereupon he made a series of excuses, each one lamer
than the preceding one, all of which were vociferously rebutted by the
team in unison, until finally, with a heavy sigh of resignation and
forbearance, he capitulated.  Then while accepting their fervent
gratitude and hearty handshakes, he at last broke down and beamed with
unrestrained pleasure.

I tell you, boys, you don't know what you've let yourselves in for.
There are many words I don't understand at all.  "I'm tired" and "I've
had enough" are just some of them, he warned.

After the evening service, Manie and Roelf walked back under the dark
rustling oaks to Rust en Vrede and Roelf was uncharacteristically
silent, not speaking until they had reached the main gates.  Then his
tone was reflective: Tell me, Manie, your cousin, how old is she? 'Which
one?  Manie asked without interest.  The fat one is Gertrude and the one
with pimples is Renata.

No!  No, Manie, don't be a dog!  Roelf cut him short.  The pretty one
with blue eyes, the one with the silky gold hair.

The one I'm going to marry.  Manfred stopped dead and swung to face him,
his head going down on his shoulders, his mouth twisting into a snarl.

Never say that again!  His voice shook and he seized the front of
Roelf's jacket.  Don't ever talk dirty like that again.

I warn you, you talk about Sarah like that again, and I'll kill you.
Manfred's face was only inches from Roelf's.  That terrible yellow glow,
the killing rage, was in his eyes.

Hey, Manie, Roelf whispered hoarsely.  What's wrong with you? I didn't
say anything dirty.  Are you mad?  I would never insult Sarah.  The
yellow rage faded slowly from Manfred's eyes and he released his grip on
Roelf's lapels.  He shook his head as if to clear it, and his voice was
bemused when he spoke again.

She's only a baby.  You shouldn't talk like that, man.  She's only a
little girl.  A baby?  Roelf chuckled uncertainly and straightened his
jacket.  Are you blind, Manie.  She's not a baby. She is the most
lovely, but Manfred flung away angrily and went storming through the
gates into the house.

So, my friend, Roelf whispered, that's how it is!  He sighed and thrust
his hands deeply into his pockets.  And then he remembered how Sarah had
looked at Manfred during the meal and how he had seen her lay her hand
on the back of his neck, furtively and adoringly, as she leaned over him
to take his empty plate, and he sighed again, overcome suddenly with a
brooding sense of melancholy.  There are a thousand pretty girls out
there, he told himself with an attempt to throw off the dark mood.  All
of them panting for Roelf Stander, and he shrugged and grinned
lopsidedly and followed Manie into the house.

Manfred won his next twelve matches in an unbroken succession, all of
them by knock-out, all of them within three rounds; and all the sports
writers had by now adopted the name Lion of the Kalahari in describing
his feats.

All right, Jong, win them while you can, Uncle Tromp admonished him. But
just remember you aren't going to be young always, and in the long run
it's not a man's muscles and fists that keep him on top. It's what's in
his skull Jong, and don't you ever forget it!  So Manfred threw himself
as enthusiastically into his academic studies as he had into his
training routine.

German was by now almost as natural to him as Afrikaans, and he was
considerably more fluent in it than in English, which he spoke only
reluctantly and with a heavy accent.  He found the Roman Dutch Law
satisfying in its logic and philosophy and read the Institutes of
Justinian like literature; at the same time politics and sociology both
fascinated him.  He and Roelf debated and discussed them endlessly,
cementing their own friendship in the process.

His boxing prowess had made him an instant celebrity on the Stellenbosch
campus.  Some of his professors treated him with special favour and
condescension because of this, while others were at first deliberately
antagonistic, acting as though he were a dunce until he proved that he
was not.

Perhaps our well-known pugilist will give us the benefit of his towering
intellect and throw some light on the concept of National Bolshevism for
us.  The speaker was the professor of Sociology and Politics, a tall
austere intellectual with the piercing eyes of a mystic.  Though he had
been born in Holland his parents had brought him out to Africa at an
early age, and Dr Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd was now one of the leading
Afrikaans intellectuals and a champion of his people's nationalist
aspirations.  He lectured first-year political students only once a
semester, reserving most of his efforts for his faculty's honour
students.  Now he was smiling superciliously as Manfred rose slowly to
his feet and composed his thoughts.

Dr Verwoerd waited for a few seconds and was about to wave him down
again, the fellow was clearly a clod, when Manfred began his reply,
speaking with carefully couched grammatical exactitude and in his newly
acquired Stellenbosch accent which Roelf was helping him hone - the
Oxford accent of Afrikaans.

As opposed to the revolutionary ideology of conventional Bolshevism
created under Lenin's leadership, National Bolshevism was originally a
term used in Germany to describe a policy of resistance to the Treaty of
Versailles, and Dr Verwoerd blinked and stopped smiling.  The fellow had
seen the trap from a mile off, separating the two concepts immediately.

Can you tell us who was the innovator of the concept?  Dr Verwoerd
demanded, a prickle of exasperation in his usual cool tones.

I believe the idea was first put forward in 1919 by Karl Radek. His
forum was an alliance of the pariah powers against the common Western
enemies of Britain, France and the United States.  The professor leaned
forward like a falcon bating for its prey.  In your view, sir, does it,
or a similar doctrine, have any currency in the present politics of
southern Africa?  They devoted all their attention to each other for the
rest of the session, while Manfred's peers, relieved of all necessity to
think, listened with varying degrees of mystification or boredom.

The following Saturday night, when Manfred won the university light
heavyweight title in the packed gymnasium, Dr Verwoerd was sitting in
the second row.  It was the first time that he had been seen at any of
the university's athletic tournaments, apart, of course, from the rugby
football matches which no Afrikaner worthy of the name would have
missed.

A few days later the professor sent for Manfred, ostensibly to discuss
an essay that he had submitted on the history of liberalism, but their
discussion ran for well over an hour and ranged widely.  When it ended
Dr Verwoerd stopped Manfred at the door.  Here is a book that you might
not have had an opportunity to look at.  He handed it across the desk.

Keep it as long as you need, and let me know your views when you have
finished with it.  Manfred was in a hurry to get to his next lecture so
he did not even read the title, and when he got back to his room he
tossed it on his desk.  Roelf was waiting to join him on their evening
run and he had no chance to look at the book again until he had changed
into his pyjamas late that night.

He picked it up from the desk and saw that he had already heard of it,
and that it was in the original German.  He did not put it down again
until dawn was glimmering through the chinks in his curtains and the
rock pigeons were cooing on the ledge outside his window.  Then he
closed the book and re-read the title: Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler.

He passed the rest of the day in a trance of almost religious revelation
and hurried back to his room at lunchtime to read again. The author was
speaking directly to him, addressing his German and Aryan bloodlines. He
had the weird sensation that it had been written exclusively for him.
Why else would Herr Hitler have included such marvelous passages as: It
is considered as natural and honourable that a young man should learn to
fence and proceed to fight duels right and left, but if he boxes, it is
supposed to be vulgar!  Why?

There is no sport that so much as this one promotes the spirit of
attack, demanding lightning decisions, and trains the body in steel
dexterity ...  but above all the young healthy body must also learn to
suffer blows, it is not the function of the V61kisch state to breed a
colony of peaceful aesthetes and physical degenerates.  .  .  If our
entire intellectual upper class had not been brought up so exclusively
on upper-class etiquette; if instead they had learned boxing thoroughly,
a German revolution of pimps, deserters and suchlike rabble would never
have been possible.

Manfred shivered with a sense of foreknowledge when he saw his own
hardly formulated attitudes to personal morality so clearly explained.

Parallel to the training of the body, a struggle against the poisoning
of the soul must begin.  Our whole public life today is a hot-house for
sexual ideas and stimulations ...

Manfred had himself suffered from these torments set like snares for the
young and pure.  He had been forced to struggle against the evil lustful
clamour of his own body when he had been exposed to magazine and cinema
posters, always written in English, that effete degenerate language
which he was growing to hate, depicting half-naked females.

You are right, he muttered, turning the pages furiously.

You are laying out the great truths for all of mankind.  We must be pure
and strong.  Then his heart bounded as he saw set out in unequivocal
language the other truths that he had only before heard lightly hinted
at.  He was transported back across the years to the hobo camp beside
the railway tracks outside Windhoek, and saw again the tattered
newspaper cartoon of Hoggenheimer driving the Volk into slavery.  His
outrage was consuming and he trembled with anger when he read:

With satanic joy in his face, the black-haired Jewish youth

lurks in wait for the unsuspecting girl whom he defiles with his blood,
stealing her from her people.

In his imagination he saw Sarah's sweet pale body lying spreadeagled
under the gross hairy carcass of Hoggenheimer and he was ready to kill.

Then the author lanced a vein of his Afrikaner blood so skilfully that
Manfred's soul seemed almost to bleed upon the page.

It was and is the Jews who bring the negroes into the Rhineland, always
with the same secret thought and clear aim of ruining the hated white
race by the necessarily resulting bastardization ...

He shuddered.  Swartgevaar!  Black danger!  had been the rallying cry of
his people over the centuries they had been in Africa, and his atavistic
heart beat to that summons once again.

He finished the book shaken and exhausted as he had never been in the
boxing ring.  Although it was already late he went to find the man who
had loaned it to him, and they talked eagerly and seriously until after
midnight.

The next day the professor dropped an approving word to another in a
high place: I have found one who I believe will be a valuable recruit,
one with a good receptive mind who will soon have great influence and
standing amongst our young people.  Manfred's name was laid before the
high council of a secret society at its next conclave: 'One of our best
young men at the university, the senior student of Rust en Vrede is
close to him, Have him recruited, ordered the chairman of the council.

Five days a week Roelf and Manfred ran a training route through the
mountains together, a hard route of steep gradients and rough footing.
Five miles out they stopped to drink in the pool below a feathery white
waterfall.  Roelf watched Manfred kneel on the slippery wet rocks an
scoop up a double handful of the clear cold water to pour it into his
open mouth.

He is a good choice, he agreed silently with the decision of his
superiors.  The light vest and shorts that Manfred wore showed off his
powerful but graceful body, and his lustrous coppery hair and fine
features were compelling.  But it was the golden topaz eyes that were
the key to his personality.

Even Roelf felt overshadowed by the younger man's developing confidence
and assurance.

He will be a strong leader, the type we need so desperately. Manfred
sprang to his feet again, dashing the water from his mouth with his
forearm.

Come on, drag arse, he laughed.  Last one back home is a Bolshevik.  But
Roelf stopped him.  Today I want to talk to you, he admitted, and
Manfred frowned.

Hell, man, we do nothing but talk anyway.  Why here?  Because here no
one will overhear us.  And you are wrong, Manie, some of us are doing
more than just talking.  We are preparing for action, hard fighting
action, the kind of action you love so well.  Manfred turned back
towards him, immediately intrigued, and came to squat in front of him.
Who?  What action?  he demanded, and Roelf inclined his head.

A secret elite of dedicated Afrikaners, the leaders of our people, men
in top places, in government and education and the commercial life of
the nation.  That's who, Manie.  And not only the leaders of today,
Manie, the leaders of tomorrow also.  Men like you and me, Manie, that's
who.  A secret society?  Manfred swayed back on his heels.

No, Manie, much more than that, a secret army ready to fight for our
poor downtrodden people.  Ready to die to restore our nation to
greatness.  Manfred felt the fine hairs on his arms and at the nape of
his neck come erect as the thrill of it coursed through his veins.  His
response was immediate and unquestioning.

Soldiers, Manie, the storm-troopers of our nation, Roelf went on.

Are you one of them, Roelf?  Manie demanded.

Yes, Manie, I am one of them, and you also.  You have attracted the
attention of our supreme council.  I have been asked to invite you to
join us in our march to destiny, in our struggle to fulfill the manifest
destiny of our people., Who are our leaders?  What is the name of this
secret army?  You will know.  You will be told everything after you have
taken the oath of allegiance, Roelf promised him, and reached out to
seize his arm, pressing powerful fingers into Manie's thick rubber-hard
biceps.

Do you accept the call of duty?  he asked.  Will you join us, Manfred De
La Rey?  Will you wear our uniform and fight in our ranks? Manfred's
Dutch blood, suspicious and broodingly introspective, responded to his
promise of clandestine intrigue, while his Germanic side longed for the
order and authority of a society of fierce warriors, modern-day Teutonic
knights, hard and unrelenting for God and Country.  And though he was
unaware of it, the streak of flamboyance and love of theatrics he had
inherited from his French mother was drawn to the military pomp,
uniforms and eagles, that Roelf seemed to offer him.

He reached out and seized Roelf's shoulder and they held each other in
the clasp of comrades, staring deeply into each other's eyes.

With all my heart, Manfred said softly.  I will join you with all my
heart.  The full moon stood high above the Stellenbosch mountains,
silvering their sheer buttresses and plunging the gullies and ravines
into deepest black.  In the south the Great Cross stood high, but it was
washed out into insignificance by the huge fiery cross that burned
closer and fiercer at the head of the open forest glade. It was a
natural amphitheatre, screened by the dense conifers that surrounded it,
a secret place, hidden from curious or hostile eyes, perfect for the
purpose.

Beneath the fiery cross the ranks of storm-troopers were massed and
their polished cross belts and buckles glinted in its light and in that
of the burning torches each of them held high.  There were not more than
three hundred troopers present, for they were the elite, and their
expressions were proud and solemn as they watched the tiny band of new
recruits march out of the forest and down the slope of the glade to
where the general waited to greet them.

Manfred De La Rey was the first of them to come to attention before the
leaders.  He wore the black shirt and riding-breeches, the high polished
riding-boots of this secret band of knights, but his head was bare and
his uniform unadorned except for the sheathed dagger on his belt.

The high commander stepped forward and stopped only a pace in front of
Manfred.  He was an imposing figure, a tall man with craggy weathered
face and hard jutting jaw.

Although thickened around the waist and big-bellied under his black
shirt, he was a man in his prime, a black-maned lion in his pride and
the aura of command and authority sat easily upon his broad shoulders.

Manfred recognized him immediately, for his was a face often reproduced
in the political columns of the national newspaper.  He was high in
government, the administrator of one of the country's provinces, and his
influence was deep and far-reaching.

Manfred De La Rey, the commander asked in a powerful voice, are you
ready to take the blood oath?  I am, Manfred replied clearly, and drew
the silver dagger from his belt.

From the ranks behind him Roelf Stander, in full uniform, capped and
booted and with the broken cross insignia on his right arm, stepped out
and drew the pistol from his holster.

He cocked the pistol and pressed the muzzle to Manfred's chest, aiming
for the heart, and Manfred did not flinch.  Roelf was his sponsor.  The
pistol was symbolic of the fact that he would also be his executioner
should Manfred ever betray the blood oath he was about to swear.

Ceremoniously the commander handed Manfred a sheet of stiff parchment.
Its head was illuminated by the crest of the order: a stylized powderhom
like those used by the voortrekkers, the pioneers of his people.  Below
it was printed the oath, and Manfred took it in one hand and with the
other held the bared dagger pointed at his own heart to signify his
willingness to lay down his life for the ideals of the brotherhood.

Before Almighty God, and in the sight of my comrades, he read aloud, I
subject myself entirely to the dictates of MY people's divinely ordained
destiny.  I swear to be faithful to the precepts of the Ossewa Brandwag,
the sentinels of the Afrikaner wagon train, and to obey the orders of my
superiors.  On my life I swear a deadly oath of secrecy, that I will
cherish and hold sacred the affairs and proceedings of the Ossewa
Brandwag.  I demand that if I should betray my comrades, my oath or my
Vow, vengeance shall follow me to my traitor's grave.  I call upon my
comrades to hear my entreaty.

If I advance, follow me.

If I retreat, shoot me down.

If I die, avenge me.

So help me Almighty God!  And Manfred drew the silver blade across his
wrist so that his blood sprang dark ruby in the torchlight, and he
sprinkled the parchment with it.

The high commander stepped forward to embrace him, and behind him the
black ranks erupted in a jubilant warlike roar of approval.  At his side
Roelf Stander returned the loaded pistol to its holster, his eyelids
stinging with the nettles of proud tears.  As the commander stepped
back, Roelf rushed forward to take Manfred's right hand in his.

My brother.  His whisper was choking.  Now we are truly brothers. in
mid-November Manfred sat his end-of-year examinations and passed third
in a law class of 153.

Three days after the results were posted, the Stellenbosch boxing squad,
led by its coach, left to take part in the InterVarsity Championships.
This year the venue was the University of the Witwatersrand in
Johannesburg, and boxers from the other universities of South Africa
journeyed from every province and corner of the Union to take part.

The Stellenbosch team travelled up by train, and there was a cheering,
singing crowd of students and faculty members to see them off at the
railway station on their thousand-mile journey.

Uncle Tromp kissed his women farewell, beginning with Aunt Trudi and
working his way down to Sarah, the youngest, at the end of the line, and
Manfred followed him.  He was wearing his colours blazer and straw
basher and he was so tall and beautiful that Sarah could not bear it and
she burst into tears as he stooped over her.  She flung both arms around
his neck and squeezed with all her strength.

Come along, don't be a silly little duck, Manfred gruffed in her ear,
but his voice was rough with the strange unaccustomed tumult that the
contact of her hot silky cheek against his provoked beneath his ribs.

Oh, Manie, you are going so far away.  She tried to hide her tears in
the angle of his neck.  We have never been parted by such distance. Come
on, monkey.  People are looking at you, he chided her gently.  Give me a
kiss and I'll bring you back a present.  I don't want a present.  I want
you, she sniffed, and then lifted her sweet face and placed her mouth
over his.  Her mouth seemed to melt in its own heat, and it was moist
and sweet as a ripe apple.

The contact lasted only seconds, but Manfred was so intensely aware that
she might have been naked in his arms and he was shaken with guilt and
self-disgust at his body's swift betrayal and at the evil that seemed to
smoke in his blood and burst like a sky rocket in his brain.  He pulled
away from her roughly, and her expression was bewildered and hurt, her
arms still raised as he scrambled up the steps onto the balcony of the
coach and joined the noisy banter and horseplay of his team mates.

As the train pulled out of the station she was standing a little apart
from the other girls, and when they all turned and trooped away down the
platform, Sarah lingered, staring after the train as it gathered speed
and ran towards the mountains.

At last a bend in the tracks carried him out of sight of her, and as
Manfred drew his head back into the carriage he saw that Roelf Stander
was watching him quizzically and now grinned and opened his mouth to
speak, but Manfred flared at him furiously and guiltily: Hou jou bek!
Hold your jaw, man!  The Inter-Varsity Championships were held over ten
days with five heats in each weight division; thus each contestant would
fight every second day.

Manfred was seeded number two in his division, which meant that he would
probably meet the holder of the champion's belt in the final round.  The
reigning champion was an engineering student who had just graduated from
the Witwatersrand University.  He was unbeaten in his career and had
announced his intention of turning professional immediately after the
Olympics for which he was considered a certain choice.

The Lion of the Kalahari meets the sternest test of his meteoric career.
Can he take the same sort of punishment that he deals out? This is the
question everyone is asking, and which Ian Rushmore will answer for us
if all goes as expected,wrote the boxing correspondent of the Rand Daily
Mail.  There does not seem to be any contestant in the division who will
be able to prevent De La Rey and Rushmore meeting on Saturday night, 20
December 1935.  It will be Rushmore's Right hand, made of granite and
gelignite, against De La Rey's swarming battering two-handed style, and
your correspondent would not miss the meeting for all the gold that lies
beneath the streets of Johannesburg.  Manfred won his first two bouts
with insulting ease.  His opponents, demoralized by his reputation, both
dropped in the second round under the barrage of slashing red gloves,
and the Wednesday was a rest day for Manfred.

He left the residence on the host university's campus before any of the
others were up, missing breakfast to be in time for the early morning
train from Johannesburg's Central Station.  it was less than an hour's
journey across the open grasslands.

He ate a frugal breakfast in the buffet of the Pretoria station and then
started out on foot with a leaden reluctance in his gait.

Pretoria Central Prison was an ugly square building and the interior was
as forbidding and depressing.  Here all executions were carried out, and
life imprisonments served.

Manfred went into the visitors entrance, spoke to the unsmiling senior
warder at the enquiries desk and filled in an application form.

He hesitated over the question, Relationship to prisoner', then boldly
wrote Son.

When he returned the form to the warder, the man read it through slowly
and then looked up at him, studying him gravely and impersonally.  He
has not had a visitor, not one in all these years, he said.

I could not come before.  Manfred tried to excuse himself.

There were reasons.  They all say that.  Then the warder's expression
altered subtly.  You are the boxer, aren't you?  That's right, Manfred
nodded, and then on an impulse he gave the secret recognition signal of
the OB and the man's eyes flicked with surprise then dropped to the form
in front of him.

Very well, then.  Have a seat.  I'll call you when he is ready, he said,
and under cover of the counter top he gave Manfred the counter signal of
the Ossewa Brandwag.

Kill the rooinek bastard on Saturday night, he whispered, and turned
away.  Manfred was amazed but elated to have proof of how widely the
brotherhood had spread its arms to gather in the Volk.

Ten minutes later the warder led Manfred through to a green-painted cell
with high barred windows, furnished only with a plain deal table and
three straight-backed chairs.

There was an old man sitting on one of the chairs, but he was a stranger
and Manfred looked beyond him expectantly.

The stranger stood up slowly.  He was bowed with age and hard work, his
skin wrinkled and folded and spotted by the sun.  His hair was thin and
white as raw cotton, wisped over a scalp that was speckled like a
plover's egg.  His thin scraggy neck stuck out of the coarse calico
prison uniform like a turtle's from the opening of its carapace, and his
eyes were colourless, faded and red-rimmed and swimming with tears that
gathered like dew on his lashes.

Papa?  Manfred asked with disbelief as he saw the missing arm, and the
old man began to weep silently.  His shoulders shook and the tears broke
over the reddened rims of his eyelids and shmed down his cheeks.

Papa" said Manfred, and outrage rose to choke him.  What have they done
to you?  He rushed forward to embrace his father, trying to hide his
face from the warder, trying to protect him, to cover his weakness and
tears.

Papa!  Papa!  he repeated helplessly, patting the thin shoulders under
the rough uniform, and he turned his head and looked back at the warder
in silent appeal.

I cannot leave you alone.  The man understood, but shook his head.

it is the rule, more than my job is worth., Please, Manfred whispered.

Do you give me your word, as a brother, that you will not try to help
him escape?  My word as a brother!  Manfred answered.

Ten minutes, said the warder.  I can give you no more.  He turned away,
locking the green steel door as he left.

4 Papa.  Manfred led the trembling old man back to the chair and knelt
beside him.

Lothar De La Rey wiped his wet cheeks with his open palm and tried to
smile, but it wavered and his voice quivered.  Look at me, blubbering
like an old woman.  It was just the shock of seeing you again.  I'm all
right now.  I'm fine.

Let me look at you, let me just look at you for a moment.  He drew back
and stared into Manfred's face intently.

What a man you have become, strong and well favoured, just like I was at
your age.  He traced Manfred's features with his fingertips. His hand
was cold and the skin was rough as sharkskin.

I have read about you, my son.  They allow us to have the newspapers.  I
have cut out everything about you and I keep them under my mattress. I'm
proud, so proud.  We all are, everybody in this place, even the narks.
Papa!  How are they treating you?  Manfred cut him short.

Fine, Manie, just fine.  Lothar looked down and his lips sagged with
despair.  It's just that, for ever is such a long time.  So long, Manie,
so very long and sometimes I think about the desert, about the horizons
that turn to distant smoke and the high blue sky.  He broke off and
tried to smile.  And I think about you, every day, not a day that I
don't pray to God "Look after my son." No, Papa, please, Manfred
pleaded.  Don't!  You will have me weeping too.  He pushed himself off
his knees and pulled the other chair close to his father's.  I've
thought about you also, Papa, everyday.  I wanted to write to you.  I
spoke to Uncle Tromp, but he said it was best if, Lothar seized his hand
to silence him.  Ja, Manie, it was best.  Tromp Bierman is a wise man;
he knows best.  He smiled more convincingly. 'How tall you have grown,
and the colour of your hair, just like mine used to be.  You will be all
right, I know.  What have you decided to do with your life?  Tell me
quickly.  We have so little time.  I am studying law at Stellenbosch.  I
passed third in the first year.  That is wonderful, my son, and
afterwards?  I am not sure, Papa, but I think I must fight for our
nation.

I think I have been called to the fight for justice for our people.
Politics?  Lothar asked, and when Manfred nodded, A hard road, full of
turns and twists.  I always preferred the straight road, with a horse
under me and a rifle in my hand.  Then he chuckled sardonically.  And
look where that road has led me.  I will fight too, Papa.  When the time
is right, on a battleground of my own choosing., Oh, my son.  History is
so cruel to our people.  Sometimes I think with despair that we are
doomed always to be the underdogs. 'You are wrong!  Manfred's expression
hardened and his voice crackled. 'Our day will come, is already dawning.
We will not be the underdogs for much longer.  He wanted to tell his
father, but then he remembered his blood oath and he was silent.

Manie.  His father leaned closer, glancing around the cell like a
conspirator before he tugged at Manfred's sleeve.  The diamonds, have
you still got your diamonds?  he demanded, and immediately saw the
answer in Manfred's face.

What happened to them?  Lothar's distress was hard to watch. 'They were
my legacy to you, all I could leave you.

Where are they?  Uncle Tromp, he found them years ago.  He said they
were evil, the coin of the devil, and he made me destroy them. 'Destroy
them?  Lothar gaped at him.

Break them on an anvil with a sledgehammer.  Crush them to powder, all
of them.  Manfred watched his father's old fierce spirit flare up.

Lothar leapt to his feet and raged around the cell.  Tromp Bierman, if I
could get my hand on you!  You were always a 1stubborn sanctimonious
hypocrite, He broke off and came back to his son.

Manie, there are the others.  Do you remember, the kopjeZ the hill in
the desert?  I left them there for you.  You must

go back.

Manfred turned his head away.  Over the years he had tried to drive the
memory from his mind.  It was evil, the memory of great evil, associated
with terror and guilt and grief.  He had tried to close his mind to that
time in his life.  It was long ago, and he had almost succeeded, but now
at his father's words he tasted again the reek of gangrene in the back
of his throat and saw the package of treasure slide down into the cleft
in the granite.

I have forgotten the way back, Papa.  I could never find the way back.
Lothar was pulling at his arm.  Hendrick!  he babbled.

Swart Hendrick!  He knows, he can lead you.  Hendrick.  Manfred blinked.
A name, half-forgotten, a fragment from his past; then suddenly and
clearly an image of that great bald head, that black cannonball of a
head, sprang into his mind.  Hendrick, he repeated. 'But he is gone.  I
don't know where.  Gone back into the desert.  I could never find him.
No!  No!  Manie, Hendrick is here, somewhere close here on the
Witwatersrand.  He is a big man now, a chief among his own people.  How
do you know, Papa?  The grapevine!  In here we hear everything.  They
come in from the outside, bringing news and messages.  We hear
everything.  Hendrick sent word to me.  He had not forgotten me.  We
were comrades.  We rode ten thousand miles together and fought a hundred
battles.  He sent word to me, to set a place where I could find him if
ever I escaped these damned walls.  Lothar leaned forward and seized his
son's head, pulling it close, placing his lips to his ear, whispering
urgently and then drawing back.  You must go and find him there.

He will lead you back to the granite hill below the Okavango river -
and, oh sweet God, how I wish I could be there to ride into the desert
with you again.  There was the clink of keys in the lock and Lothar
shook his son's arm desperately.  Promise me you will go, Manie.  Papa,
the stones are evil.  Promise me, my own son, promise me that I have not
endured these captive years for nothing.  Promise me you will go back
for the stones.  I promise, Papa, Manfred whispered, as the warder
stepped into the cell.

Time is up.  I'm sorry.  Can I come and see my father again tomorrow?
The warder shook his head.  Only one visit a month.  I'll write to you,
Papa.  He turned back to embrace Lothar.

I'll write to you every week from now on.  But Lothar nodded
expressionlessly; his face had closed and his eyes were veiled.  Ja!

he nodded.  You write to me sometime, he agreed, and shuffled out of the
cell.

Manfred stared at the closed green door until the warder touched his
shoulder: Come along.  Manfred followed him to the visitors entrance in
a tangle of emotions.  only when he stepped out of the gates into the
sunlight and looked up at the towering blue African sky of which his
father had spoken so yearningly did one emotion emerge to swamp all the
others.

It was rage, blind hopeless rage, and it grew stronger over the days
that followed, seeming to climax as he marched down the aisle between
the rows of screaming cheering spectators towards the brilliantly
lighted ring of rope and canvas, dressed in shimmering silks with the
crimson leather on his fists and bloody murder in his heart.

Centaine woke long before Blaine did; she grudged every second they
wasted in sleep.  It was still dark outside for the cottage was close
under the precipice of the high tabletopped mountain and screened from
dawn's first glow by its bulk, though the birds in the tiny walled
garden were already squeaking and chirping sleepily.  She had ordered
tacoma and honeysuckle to be trained over the stone walls to attract
them, and on her orders the feeding-boxes were replenished every day by
the gardener.

She had taken months to find the perfect cottage.  It had to be
discreetly enclosed, with covered parking for her Daimler and Blaine's
new Bentley, both vehicles that attracted immediate attention.  It had
to be within ten minutes walk of Parliament and Blaine's office in the
wing of the imposing Herbert Baker building reserved for cabinet
ministers.  it had to have a view of the mountain, and must be set in
one of the tiny lanes of an unfashionable suburb where none of their
friends or business associates or fellow parliamentarians or enemies or
members of the press were ever likely to stray.

But above all it had to have that special feel.

When at last she walked into it she did not even see the stained and
faded wallpaper or the threadbare carpets on the floor.  She stood in
the central room and smiled softly.

Happy people have lived here.  Yes, this is the one.  I'll take it.  She
had registered the title deeds in one of her holding companies, but
trusted no architect nor decorator with its renovation. She planned and
executed the reconstruction entirely herself.

It's got to be the most perfect love nest ever built., She set her usual
unattainable standard for herself and consulted with the builder and his
carpenters and plumbers and painters every single morning while the work
was in hand.

They tore down the walls between the four tiny bedrooms and fashioned
them into a single boudoir with french windows and shutters opening onto
the enclosed garden with its high wall of yellow Table Mountain
sandstone and the view of the grey mountain cliff beyond.

She built separate bathrooms for Blaine and herself, his finished in
ruby-veined cream Italian marble with gold dolphin taps and fittings,
hers like a Bedouin tent draped in rose silk.

The bed was a museum piece, Italian Renaissance workmanship inlaid with
ivory and gold leaf.  We can always play polo on it in the off-season,
Blaine remarked when first he saw it, and she placed her magnificent
Turner, all sunlight and golden sea, so that it was in full view from
the bed.

She hung the Bonnard in the dining-room and lit it with a chandelier
which was a shimmering inverted Christmas tree of crystal, and placed
the choicest pieces of her collection of Queen Anne and Louis Quatorze
silver on the sideboard.

She staffed the cottage with four permanent servants, cluding a valet
for Blaine and a full-time gardener.  The In chef was a Malay who
conjured up the most heavenly pilaffs and boboties and rest that Blaine,
who had a spicy palate and was a connoisseur of curries, had ever
tasted.

A flowerseller from her pitch outside the Groote Kerk near the
parliament buildings had a contract to deliver huge bunches of yellow
roses to the cottage each day, and Centaine stocked the small wine
cellar with the noblest vintages from Weltevreden's own cavernous
cellars and installed, at enormous expense, an electric walk-in cold
room in the pantries to keep the hams and cheeses, the potted caviars
and smoked Scotch salmon and other such necessities of life in prime
condition.

Yet with all her loving attention to detail and lavish planning, they
were lucky if they could spend a single night there in a month, although
there were other stolen hours, garnered like diamonds, and hoarded by
Centaine as though she were the stingiest of misers: a private luncheon
when parliament recessed or a midnight interlude after the house had sat
late; the occasional afternoon, and, oh sweet heavens, what afternoons,
when his wife, Isabella, believed he was at polo practice or at a
cabinet meeting.

Now Centaine rolled her head carefully on the lace pillow and looked at
him.  The dawn light was silvery through the shutters and his features
seemed carved in ivory.  She thought that he looked like a sleeping
Roman Caesar, with that imperial nose and wide commanding mouth.

In all but the ears, she thought, and stifled a giggle.

Strange how after three years his presence could make her still feel
like a girl.  She rose quietly, careful not to rock the mattress and
disturb him, picked up her wrap from the couch and slipped through to
her bathroom.

Swiftly she brushed her hair into thick dark plumes checking for grey
and then, relieved, went on to clean her teeth and wash her eyes with
the little blue glass bath of lotion until the whites were clear and
sparkling.  Then she creamed her face and wiped away the excess. Blaine
liked her skin free of cosmetics.  As she used her bidet she smiled
again at Blaine's mock amazement when he had first seen it.

Marvellous!  he had cried.  A horse trough in the bathroom, how jolly
useful!  Sometimes he was so romantic he was almost French.  She laughed
with anticipation, snatched a fresh silk wrap from the wardrobe and ran
through to the kitchen.  The servants were all astir, bubbling with
excitement because the master was here and they all adored Blaine.

Did you get them, Hadji?  Centaine demanded, using the title of respect
for one who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca, and the Malay chef grinned
like a butter-yellow gnome under his tasselled red fez and proudly
displayed the pair of thick juicy kippers.

Come on the mail boat yesterday, madam, he boasted.

Hadji, you are a magician, she applauded.  Scotch kippers were Blaine's
favourite breakfast.  You are going to do them his way, aren't you?
Blaine's way was simmered in milk, and Hadji looked pained at the
impropriety of the question as he turned back to his stove.

For Centaine it was a marvelous game of make-believe, playing wife,
pretending that Blaine truly belonged to her.

So with a sharp eye she watched Miriam grind the coffee beans and Khalil
finish sponging Blaine's grey pinstripe suit and begin to put a military
gleam on his shoes before she left them and crept back into the darkened
bedroom.

She felt quite breathless as she hovered beside the bed and studied his
features.  He still had that effect on her even after all this time.

I am more faithful than any wife, she gloated.  More dutiful, more
loving, more, His arm shot out so suddenly that she squealed with fright
as he plucked her down beside him and flicked the sheet over her.

You were awake all along, she wailed.  Oh, you awful man, I can never
trust you.  They could still, on occasion, drive each other into that
mindless frenzy, those writhing sensual marathons that exploded at the
end in a great burst of light and colour like the Turner on the wall
before them.  But more often it had become as it was this morning, a
fortress of love, solid and impregnable.  They left it with reluctance,
coming apart slowly, lingeringly, as the day filled the room with gold
and they heard the clink of Hadji's breakfast dishes on the terrace
beyond the shutters.

She brought him his robe, full-length brocaded China silk royal blue
lined in crimson with a belt of embroidered seed pearls and velvet
lapels.  She had chosen it because it was so outlandish, so different
from his usual severe style of dress.

I wouldn't wear it in front of anybody else in the world, he had told
her, holding it gingerly at arm's length, when she presented it to him
on his birthday.

If you do, you'd better not let me catch you at it!  she warned, but
after the first shock he had come to enjoy wearing it for her.

Hand in hand they went out onto the terrace and Hadji and Miriam beamed
with delight and bowed them to their seats at the table in the morning
sunlight.

With a rapid but steely survey, Centaine made sure everything was
perfect, from the roses in the Lalique vase to the snowy linen and the
Faberg6 jug of silver gilt and crystal filled with freshly squeezed
grapefruit juice, before she opened the morning paper and began to read
to him.

Always in the same order: the headlines and then the parliamentary
reports, waiting for him to comment on each, adding her own ideas, and
then going on to the financial pages and stock exchange reports, and
finally to the sports pages with special emphasis on any mention of
polo.

Oh, I see you spoke yesterday: "a forceful reply from the minister
without portfolio", they say.  And Blaine smiled as he lifted a fillet
off his kipper.

Hardly forceful, he demurred.  "Pissed off" better describes it.  What's
this about secret societies?  A bit of a flap over these militant
organizations, inspired it would seem by the charming Herr Hitler and
his gang of political thugs.  Anything in it?  Centaine sipped at her
coffee.  She still couldn't get her stomach to accept these English
breakfasts.

You seem to have dismissed the whole thing rather lightly.  Then she
looked up at him with narrowing eyes.  You were covering up, weren't
you?  She knew him so well, and he grumed guiltily at her.

Don't miss a thing, do you?  Can you tell me?  Shouldn't really.  He
frowned, but she had never betrayed his trust.  We are very worried
indeed, he admitted.  in fact the Ou Baas considers it the most serious
threat since the 1914 rebellion when De Wet called out his commandos to
fight for the Kaiser.  The whole thing is a political nettle, and a
potential mine-field.  He paused, and she knew there was more, but she
waited quietly for him to make up his mind to tell her. 'All right, he
decided.  The Ou Baas has ordered me to head a commission of enquiry,
cabinet level and confidential, into the Ossewa Brandwag, which is the
most extreme and flourishing of them all.

Worse than the Broederbond even.  Why you, Blaine?  It's a nasty one,
isn't it?  Yes, it's a nasty one, and he picked me as a non-Afrikaner.

The impartial judge!

Of course, I've heard of the OB.  There has been talk for years but
nobody seems to know much.  Extreme right-wing nationalists,
anti-Semitic, anti-black, blaming all the ills of their world on
perfidious Albion, secret blood oaths and midnight rallies, a sort of
Neanderthal boy scout movement with Mein Kampf as its inspiration.  I
haven't yet read Mein Kampf.  Everyone is talking about it.  is there an
English or French translation?  Not officially published, but I have a
Foreign Office translation.  It's a rag-bag of nightmares and
obscenities, a manual of naked aggression and bigotry.  I would lend you
my copy but it is appallingly bad literature and the sentiments would
sicken you.  He may not be a great writer, Centaine conceded. 'But,
Blaine, whatever else he has done, Hitler has put Germany on its feet
again after the disaster of the Weimar Republic.

Germany is the only country in the world with full employment and a
booming economy.  My shares in Krupp and Farben have almost doubled in
the last nine months.  She stopped as she saw his expression.  Is
something wrong, Blaine?  He had laid his knife and fork down and was
staring at her.

You have shares in the German armaments industry?  he asked quietly, and
she nodded.

The best investment I have made since gold went off She broke off; they
had never mentioned that again.

I have never asked you to do anything for me, have I?  he asked, and she
considered that carefully.

No, you haven't, ever.  Well, I'm asking you now.  Sell your shares in
German armarnents.  She looked puzzled.  Why, Blaine? 'Because it is
like investing in the propagation of cancer, or like financing Genghis
Khan's campaigns.  She did not reply, but her expression went blank and
her eyes went out of focus, crossing into a slightly myopic squint.  The
first time he had seen that happen he had been alarmed; it had taken him
some time to realize that when she squinted like that she was involved
in mental arithmetic, and it had fascinated him to see how quickly she
made her calculations.

Her eyes flicked back into focus and she smiled agreement.

On yesterday's prices, I'll show a profit of a hundred and twenty-six
thousand pounds.  It was time to sell anyway.  I'll cable my London
broker as soon as the post office opens.  Thank you, my love. Blaine
shook his head sorrowfully.

But I do wish you'd made your profit somewhere else.  You may be
misjudging the situation, cheri, she suggested tactfully.  Hitler may
not be as bad as you think he is.  He doesn't have to be as bad as I
think he is, Centaine.

He only has to be as bad as he says he is in Mein Kampf to qualify for
the chamber of horrors.  Blaine took a mouthful of his kipper and closed
his eyes with mild ecstasy.  She watched him with a pleasure almost
equal to his own.  He swallowed, opened his eyes, and declared the
subject closed with a wave of his fork.

Enough horrors for such a splendid morning.  He smiled at her. 'Read me
the sports pages, woman!  Centaine rustled the pages portentously and
then composed herself to read aloud, but suddenly the colour drained
from her face and she swayed in her seat.

Blaine dropped his knife and fork with a clatter and jumped up to steady
her.  What is it, darling?  He was desperately alarmed and almost as
pale as she was.  She shrugged his hands away and stared at the open
newspaper which trembled in her grip.

Blaine moved quickly behind her, and scanned the page over her shoulder.
There was an article on the previous weekend's racing at Kenilworth.
Centaine's entry, a good stallion named Bonheur, had lost the feature
race by a short head, but that could not have occasioned her distress.

Then he saw that she was looking at the foot of the page and he followed
her gaze to a quarter-column photograph of a boxer, in shorts and vest,
facing the camera in a formal pose, bare fists raised and a grim
expression on his handsome features.  Centaine had never evinced the
slightest interest in boxing, and Blaine was puzzled.  He read the
heading of the article which accompanied the photograph: FEAST OF
FISTICUFFS CLASSY FIELD FOR INTERvARSITY CHAMPIONS, which did nothing to
alleviate his puzzlement.  He glanced at the footnote beneath the
photograph: The Lion of the Kalahari, Manfred De La Rey, the Challenger
for the InterVarsity Light Heavyweight Belt.  Hard pounding ahead.,
Manfred De La Rey.  Blaine said the name softly, trying to remember
where last he had heard it.  Then his expression cleared and he squeezed
Centaine's shoulders.

Manfred De La Rey!  The boy you were looking for in Windhoek.  Is this
him?

Centaine did not look round, but she nodded jerkily.

What is he to you, Centaine?  She was shaken into an emotional turmoil;
otherwise she might have answered different But now it was out before
she could bite down on the words.  He's my son.  My bastard son.
Blaine's hands dropped from her shoulders and she heard the sharp
hissing intake of his breath.

I must be mad!  Her reaction was immediate, and she thought, I should
never have told him.  Blaine will never understand.  He'll never forgive
me.  She dared not look round at the shock and accusation she knew she
would find on his face.  She dropped her head and cupped her hands over
her eyes.

I've lost him, she thought.  Blaine is too upright, too virtuous to
accept it.  Then his hands touched her again, and they lifted her to her
feet and turned her gently to face him.

I love you, he said simply, and her tears choked her and she flung
herself against his chest and held him with all her strength.

Oh Blaine, you are so good to me.  If you want to tell me about it, I'm
here to help you.  If you'd rather not talk, then I understand.

There is just one thing, whatever it was, whatever you did, makes no
difference to me and my feelings for you.

I want to tell you.  She fought back her tears of relief and looked up
at him.  I've never wanted to keep secrets from you.  I've wanted to
tell you for years now, but I am a coward.  You are many things, my
love, but never a coward.  He seated her again and drew his own chair
close so that he could hold her hand while she talked.

Now tell me,he commanded.

It's such a long story, Blaine, and you have a cabinet meeting at nine.
Affairs of state can wait, he said.  Your happiness is the Most
important thing in the world.  So she told him, from the time that
Lothar De La Rey had rescued her to the discovery of the H'ani diamond
mine and the birth of Manfred in the desert.

She held nothing back: her love for Lothar, the love of a lonely
forsaken girl for her rescuer.  She explained how it had changed to
bitter hatred when she discovered that Lothar had murdered the old
Bushman woman who was her foster mother, and how that hatred had focused
on Lothar's child that she was carrying in her womb, and how she had
refused even to look upon the newborn infant but had made the father
take it from the childbed still wet from the act of birth.

It was wicked, she whispered.  But I was confused and afraid, afraid of
the rejection of the Courtney family if I brought a bastard amongst
them.  Oh, Blaine, I have regretted it ten thousand times, and hated
myself as much as I hated Lothar De La Rey.  Do you want to go to
Johannesburg to see him again?  Blaine asked.  We could fly up to watch
the championships.  The idea startled Centaine.  We?  she asked. 'We,
Blaine?  I couldn't let you go alone.  Not to something so disturbing.
But can you get away?  What about Isabella?  Your need is far more
important now, he told her simply.

Do you want to go?  Oh yes, Blaine.  Oh yes please.  She dabbed away the
last tear with her lace table napkin, and he saw her mood shift.

It always fascinated him how she could change moods as other women
changed their hats.

Now she was crisp and quick and businesslike.  I am expecting Shasa back
from South-West later today.  I'll ring Abe in Windhoek to find out what
time they took off.  If all is well, we can leave for Johannesburg
tomorrow.  What time, Blaine?  As early as you like, he told her.  This
afternoon I will clear my desk and make my peace with the Ou Baas.  The
weather should be fine this time of year, perhaps a few thunderstorms on
the highveld.  She took his wrist and turned it to see his Rolex watch.
Cheri, you can still get to the cabinet meeting if you hurry.  She went
with him to the garage to see him off, still playing the dutiful wife,
and kissed him through the open window of the Bentley.

I'll ring your office as soon as Shasa arrives, she murmured in his ear.
I'll leave a message with Doris if you are still in the meeting.  Doris
was Blaine's secretary, and one of the very few people in the world that
knew about them.

As soon as he was gone, Centaine rushed back into the bedroom and picked
up the phone.  The line to Windhoek was noisy with crackles and hisses
and Abe Abrahams sounded as though he were in Alaska.

They left at first light, almost five hours ago, he told her faintly.
David is with him, of course.  What's the wind, Abe?  They should have a
tail wind all the way.  I'd say twenty or thirty miles an hour.  Thank
you.  I'll wait at the field for them., That might be a little awkward.
Abe sounded hesitant.

There was a lot of secrecy and deliberate vagueness when they got in
from the mine yesterday evening, and I wasn't allowed to see them off
from the airfield this morning.  I think they might have company, if you
will excuse the euphemism.  As a reflex, Centaine frowned, though she
truly could not find it in herself thoroughly to disapprove of Shasa's
philanderings.  She always excused him with: It's his de Thiry blood. He
can't help himself, feeling a covert touch of indulgent pride in her
son's effortless successes with the opposite sex.  Now she changed the
subject.

Thank you, Abe.  I've signed the new Namaqualand leases so you can go
ahead and draw up the contract.  They spoke business for five minutes
more before Centaine hung up.

She made three more calls, all business, then phoned her secretary at
Weltevreden and dictated four letters and the cable to her London broker
to Sell all Krupp and Farben at best.  She hung up, sent for Hadji and
Miriam and gave them instructions for the running of the cottage in her
absence.

Then she made a quick calculation.  The Dragon Rapide, a beautiful blue
and silver twin-engined aircraft which Shasa had prevailed on her to
buy, could cruise at 150 knots, and with a tail wind of twenty miles an
hour they should be at Youngsfield before noon.

So we will see just how much Master Shasa's taste in women has improved
recently.  She went out to the Daimler and drove slowly around the
shoulder of the mountain, below District Six, the colourful Malay
quarter, its narrow lanes reverberating to the cries of the muezzin
calling the faithful to prayer, the hoot of the fishsellers horns
declaring their wares and the birdlike cries of children, and past the
hospital of Groote Schuur and the university which adjoined Cecil Rhodes
magnificent estate, his legacy to the nation.

it must be the most beautiful situation of any university in the world,
she thought.

The colonnaded stone buildings were set against a backdrop of dark pines
and the sheer sky-high cliff of the mountain, while on the meadows
abutting them grazed small herds of plains animals, eland and wildebeest
and zebra.

Sight of the university set her thinking about Shasa again.

He had just completed his year, with a respectable second-class.

I always suspect those who pass first class in everything, Blaine had
remarked when he heard Shasa's results.  Most of them are too clever for
their own good or the good of those around them.  I prefer those lesser
mortals for whom the achievement of excellence requires considerable
effort.  You accuse me of spoiling him, she had smiled. 'But you are
always making excuses for Shasa yourself.  Being your son, my love, is
not the easiest of tasks for a young man, he had told her, making her
bridle furiously.

You think I am not good to him.  You are very good to him.  As I have
suggested, perhaps too good to him.  It's just that you do not leave
much for him.  You are so successful, so dominant.  You have done it
all.  What can he do to prove himself?  Blaine, I am not domineering.  I
said dominant, Centaine, not domineering.  The two are different.  I
love you because you are dominant.  I would despise you if you were
domineering.  Still I do not always understand this language of yours. I
shall look it up in my dictionary.  Ask Shasa, English was his only
first.  Blaine chuckled and then put his arm around her shoulders.  You
must slacken the rein a little, Centaine, give him space to make his own
mistakes and enjoy his own triumphs.  If he wants to hunt, even though
you do not approve of killing animals that you cannot eat, the Courtneys
have all been big-game hunters.  Old General Courtney slew elephant in
their hundreds and Shasa's father hunted; let the boy try his hand at
it.  That and polo are the only things you haven't done before him. What
about flying?  she challenged.

I apologize, and flying.  Very well, I will let him go and murder
beasts.  But Blaine, tell me, will he make the polo team for the
Olympics?  Frankly, my darling, no.  But he is good enough!  You said so
yourself., Yes, Blaine agreed.  He is probably good enough. He has all
the fire and dash, a marvelous eye and arm, but he lacks experience.  If
he were chosen he'd be the youngest international ever.

However, I don't think he will be.  I think Clive Ramsay has to get the
ride at number two.  She stared at him, and he stared back
expressionlessly.  He knew what she was thinking.  As Captain, Blaine
was one of the national selectors.

David will be going to Berlin, she had followed up.

David Abrahams is the human version of a gazelle,Blaine had pointed out
reasonably.  He has the fourth best time in the world for the two
hundred metres and the third best for the four hundred.  Young Shasa is
competing against at least ten of the world's best horsemen for a place.
I would give anything in the world for Shasa to go to Berlin.  Very
likely you would, Blaine had agreed.  She had built a new wing to the
engineering faculty at the University of Cape Town the Courtney
Building, when it had finally been decided that Shasa would go there
rather than to oxford; yes, he knew no price was too high for her to
pay.

I assure you, my love, that I will make very certain he paused, and she
perked up expectantly, that I excuse myself from the room when, and if,
Shasa's name ever comes up before the selectors.  He's so damned
virtuous!  she exclaimed aloud now and beat her clenched fist on the
steering-wheel of the Daimler with frustration, until a sudden vision of
the ivory and gold inlaid bed stopped her and she grinned wickedly.

Well, Perhaps virtuous is not the correct word again.  The airfield was
deserted.  She parked the Daimler beside the hangar, where Shasa would
not see it from the air.  Then she took the travelling rug from the boot
and spread it under a tree on the edge of the wide grassy strip.

It was one of those lovely summer days, bright sunlight with only
patches of cloud over the mountain, a sharp breeze ruffling the stone
pines and taking the edge off the heat.

She settled down on the rug with Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, a book
that she had been trying to finish for the last week, occasionally
glancing up from the page to scan the northern sky.

David Abrahams was almost as enchanted with flying as he was with
running.  That was what had brought him and Shasa together in the
beginning.  Though Abe Abrahams had worked for Centaine and been one of
her closest personal friends for almost all of David's lifetime, the two
boys had really only noticed each other when they went up to university
in the same year.  Since then they had become inseparable and were
founder members of the university flying club, for which Centaine had
provided a Tiger Moth trainer.

David was studying law, and it was tacitly understood that when he
qualified he would join his father in Windhoek, which meant naturally
that he would become one of Centaine's people.  She had observed the boy
carefully over the years and found no vice in him, so she approved of
his friendship with Shasa.

David was taller than his father, with a lean runner's body and an
attractively ugly, humorous face, thick curly hair and a large beaky
nose which he had inherited from Abe.  His best features were his dark
Semitic eyes and long sensitive hands, with which he was now
manipulating the control column of the Dragon Rapide.  He flew with an
almost religious dedication, like a priest performing the ritual of some
arcane religion.  He treated the aircraft as though it were a beautiful
living creature, whereas Shasa flew like an engineer, with understanding
and great skill, but without David's mystic passion.

David brought that same passion to running and many of the other things
in his existence.  This was one of the reasons that Shasa loved him so
dearly.  He spiced Shasa's own life, enhanced the pleasure which Shasa
derived from the things they did together.  These past weeks might have
been dull and anti-climactic without David.

With Centaine's blessing, withheld strenuously for almost a year and
then mysteriously given at the last moment, the two of them had taken
the Rapide and flown to the H'ani Mine the day after they had written
their final examinations.

At the mine Dr Twenty-man-Jones had arranged for two four-ton trucks to
be waiting for them, fully equipped with camping equipment, camp staff,
trackers, skinners and a k.  one of the company prospectors, a man
thoroughly versed in the ways of the wild, in bushcraft and hunting big
dangerous game, was in charge of the expedition.

Their destination was the Caprivi Strip, that remote ribbon of
wilderness, between Angola and Bechuanaland.

Entry to this area was severely restricted and hunting was forbidden
except in exceptional circumstances.  Enviously it was referred to by
other sportsmen as the private hunting preserve of the cabinet ministers
of the South African government.  Blaine Malcomess had arranged entry
permits and hunting licences for them.

Under the grizzled old prospector's quiet instruction and firm hand the
two young men had come to a closer understanding of, and respect for,
the wilderness and the fascinating spectrum of life it contained.  In a
few weeks he had taught them something of man's place in the fragile
balance of nature and instilled in them the principles of ethical
hunting.

The death of each individual animal is sad but inevitable.

However, the death of the forest or swamp or plain that supports the
entire species is tragedy, he explained.  if the kings and noblemen of
Europe had not been avid huntsmen, the stag and the boar and the bear
would be extinct today.

it was the huntsmen who saved the forest from the axe and the plough of
the peasants.  And they listened attentively at the camp-fire as he
explained.  Then who hunt for love of the creatures they pursue will
protect the breeding females and young from the poachers and save the
forests from the goats and cattle.  No, my young friends, Robin Hood was
a dirty poacher.  The sheriff of Nottingham was the real hero.  So they
spent enchanted days in the bush, leaving camp on foot while it was
still dark and returning dog-weary after the sun had set. Each of them
killed his lion, and experienced the hunter's sadness and elation at the
deed, and came out determined to preserve that wild and beautiful
country from the predations of unthinking, greedy men.  And Shasa,
blessed by the chance of birth with the promise of great wealth and
influence, came to realize in some small measure how much of that
responsibility could one day be his.

The women had been superfluous, as David had warned they would be.

However, Shasa had insisted on bringing them, one for himself and one
for David.

Shasa's choice was almost thirty years old.  The best tunes are played
on an old fiddle, he assured David.  She was also a divorcee. 'I never
break in my own polo ponies., She had big blue eyes, a ripe red mouth
and a pneumatic figure, but was not burdened by an unnecessary amount of
brain.

David nicknamed her Jumbo,, Because, he explained, she's so thick that
two elephants could walk across her skull side by side., Shasa had
prevailed upon Jumbo to bring a friend for David, and she had selected a
tall dark lady, another divorcee, with trailing locks; her thin arms
were loaded with bangles, her long neck with strings of beads.  She
affected an ivory cigarette-holder and had a smouldering intense gaze
but spoke seldom, then usually to ask for another gin.

David dubbed her the Camel for her insatiable thirst.

However, the two of them turned out to be ideal, for while they
delivered what was expected of them with vigour and expertise when
called upon to do so, for the rest they were quite content to remain in
camp all day, and in the evening demanded little attention and made no
attempt to sabotage the conversation around the camp-fire by joining in.

That was probably the most enjoyable holiday I will ever spend., Shasa
leaned back in the pilot's seat of the Rapide and stared dreamily ahead,
content to let David, in the copilot's seat, do the flying. 'But it
isn't over yet!  He glanced at his wristwatch.  Another hour before we
reach Cape Town.  Keep her on course, he told David, and unfastened his
safety-belt.

where are you going2 David demanded.

I will not embarrass you by replying to that question, but do not be
surprised when the Camel comes up to the cockpit to join you.  I really
am worried about you.  David looked grave.

You're going to rupture something if you go on like this.  Never felt
stronger, Shasa assured him as he wriggled out of the seat.

Not you, dear boy, it's jumbo I'm worried about.  David shook his head
sadly, and Shasa chuckled, slapped his shoulder and ducked into the rear
cabin.

The Camel looked up at him with that dark fanatical gaze and spilled a
little gin and tonic down the front of her blouse, while jumbo giggled
and wriggled her fat little rump across the seat to make room for Shasa.
beside her.

He whispered in her ear and jumbo looked bewildered, not an unusual
expression for her.

The Mile High Club, what in heaven's name is that?  Shasa whispered
again and she peered out of the side window at the earth below.

Goodness!  I didn't realize we were that high.  You get a special brooch
when you become a member, Shasa told her, made of gold and diamonds. And
jumbo's interest flared.

Oh goody!  What kind of brooch?  A flying pussy cat, with gold wings and
diamond eyes.  A pussy cat?  Why a pussy, she broke off as understanding
dawned in those china blue eyes.  Shasa Courtney, you are awfulF She
lowered her eyes and blinked demurely, and Shasa winked across the aisle
at the Camel.

I think Davie wants to talk to you.  The Camel rose obediently, glass in
hand, all her bangles and beads jangling as she wobbled from one side of
the aisle to the other.

An hour later Shasa brought the Rapide in from the mountain side of the
airstrip, and laid her down on the grass as though he were buttering hot
toast.  He swung her nose around before she had stopped, taxiing back
towards the hangars.  With a burst of the starboard engine, he brought
her up onto the hard stand and cut the motors.

Only then did he notice the yellow Daimler parked in the shadow of the
hangar with Centaine standing beside it.

Oh for the love of Allah, Mater is here.  Get those beauties flat on the
floor!  Too late, David groaned.  Jumbo, bless her, is already waving at
your mum through the porthole., Shasa steeled himself to his mother's
wrath as jumbo came giggling down the boarding ladder, supporting the
Camel, whose legs had finally let her down.

Centaine said nothing, but she had a taxi waiting beside the Daimler.
How she had known about the girls Shasa would never ask, but she waved
the taxi forward and herded the unsteady pair into the back seat with an
eye like a stockwhip.

Get their luggage in the boot, she ordered Shasa tersely, and the moment
it was loaded, she nodded at the taxi-driver.

Take them wherever they want to go., Camel sat owl-eyed in her seat, but
jumbo leaned out of the rear window waving and blowing kisses at Shasa
until the taxi disappeared through the gates of the airfield, and Shasa
bowed his head and waited for his mother's icy sarcasm.

Did you have a good trip, darling?  Centaine asked sweetly, holding up
her face to be kissed, and the two girls were never mentioned again.

Marvellous!  Shasa's kiss was full of gratitude and relief and genuine
pleasure at being with her again, and he began to tell her all about it,
but she cut him off, Cheri!!  she said.  Right now I Want you to arrange
for the Rapide to be refuelled and checked.  We are flying up to
Johannesburg tomorrow.  In Johannesburg they stayed at the Carlton.
Centaine owned thirty percent of the equity in the hotel company, and
the royal suite was at her disposal whenever she was in town.

The hotel would soon be in need of major renovation, but it occupied a
prime position in the centre of Johannesburg.

While she dressed for dinner, Centaine weighed the possibility of having
the old building pulled down and redeveloping the site, She would have
her architects prepare a report, she decided, as she put business out of
her mind and devoted the rest of the evening and all of her attention to
Blaine.

Taking a silly chance of alerting the gossips, she and Blaine danced
until two in the morning in the nightclub on the top floor of the hotel.

The next day Blaine had a full series of meetings at the Union Buildings
in Pretoria, his excuse to Isabella for leaving Cape Town, so Centaine
could spend the day with Shasa.  In the morning there was a sale of
yearlings at the showgrounds, but the prices were ridiculously high and
they ended up without having bought a single animal.  They lunched at
the East African pavilion, where, more than the food, Centaine enjoyed
the envious and speculative glances of the women at the surrounding
tables.

in the afternoon they went to the zoo.  Between feeding the monkeys and
rowing on the lake, they discussed Shasa's plans for the future and she
was delighted to learn that he had lost none of his determination to
take up his duties and responsibilities with Courtney Mining and Finance
as soon as he had obtained his Master's degree.

They arrived back at the Carlton with plenty of time to change for the
boxing.  Blaine, already in his dinner jacket, held a whisky and soda in
his hand and he sprawled in one of the armchairs and watched Centaine
complete her toilet.

She enjoyed that.  It was playing at being married again, and she called
him to hook in her ear-rings and then paraded for his approval,
pirouetting to spread her long skirts.

I have never been to a boxing match before, Blaine.  Aren't we terribly
over-dressed?  I assure you that black tie is de rigueur. oh God, I'm so
nervous.  I don't know what I'm going to say to him, even if I get a
chance, she broke off.  You did manage to get tickets, didn't you?  He
showed them to her and smiled.  Front row, and I have arranged for a car
and driver.  Shasa drifted into the suite with a white silk scarf draped
casually over the shoulders of his dinner jacket, and his black tie
minutely and artfully asymmetrical so that it could never be mistaken
for one of the modern clip-on monstrosities.

He looks so magnificent.  Centaine's heart swelled at the sight of him.
How ever am I going to preserve him from the harpies?  He kissed her
before going to the cabinet and pouring her customary glass of
champagne.

Can I freshen your whisky, sir?  he asked Blaine.

Thanks, but one is my limit, Shasa, Blaine declined, and Shasa poured
himself a dry ginger-ale.  That was one thing she didn't have to worry
about, Centaine thought, liquor would never be one of Shasa's
weaknesses.

Well, Mater, Shasa raised his glass, here's to your newfound interest in
the gentlemanly art of boxing.  Are you versed in the general objectives
of the game?  I think two young men get into a ring and try to kill each
other, is that right!  That, Centaine, is exactly right, Blaine laughed.
He never used an endearment in front of Shasa, and not for the first
time she wondered what Shasa thought of her and Blaine.

He must suspect, surely, but she had enough to worry about this evening
without opening that dark door.  She drank her champagne and then,
gorgeous in diamonds and silks, on the arms of the two most important
men in her world, she swept out to the waiting limousine.

The streets of the campus of the University of the Witwatersrand around
the gymnasium were solid with parked vehicles and others moving nose to
tail up the hill, while the sidewalks were packed with a jostling
excited crowd of students and fight fans from the general public
hurrying towards the hall, so their driver was forced to drop them off
two hundred yards short of the entrance, and they joined the throng on
foot.

The atmosphere in the hall was noisy and expectant, and as they took
their reserved seats Centaine was relieved to see that everyone in the
first three rows was wearing evening dress and that there were almost as
many ladies as gentlemen in the crowd.  She had had nightmares about
being the only female in the hall.

She sat through the preliminary bouts, trying to appear interested in
the lecture she was receiving from both Blaine and Shasa on the finer
points of the contests, but the fighters in the lower weight divisions
were so small and scrawny that they reminded her of underfed game cocks,
and the flurry of action was fast enough to trick the eye. Besides,
racing ahead to her first her mind and expectations were sight of the
man she had come to see.

Another bout ended; the fighters, bruised and slick with sweat, climbed
down from the ring, and an expectant hush fell on the hall, and heads
began craning around towards the dressing-room.

Blaine checked his programme and murmured, This is it!  Then a
bloodthirsty roar went up from the mass of spectators.

Here he comes.  Blaine touched her arm, but she found she could not turn
her head.

,I wish I had never come, she thought, and shrank down in her seat.  I
don't want him to see me.  The light heavyweight challenger, Manfred De
La Rey, came down to the ring first, attended by his coach an two
seconds, and the block of Stellenbosch students let out a roar and
brandished their colour banners, launching into the Varsity war cry.
They were immediately answered by the Wits students opposite with cheers
and jeers and stamping of feet.  The pandemonium was painful to the
eardrums as Manfred climbed up into the ring and did a little shuffling
dance, holding his gloved hands above his head, the silk gown swinging
from his shoulders like a cloak.

His hair had grown longer and unfashionably it was not dressed with
Brylcreem, but rippled around his head like a gilded cloud as he moved.
His jaw was strong, stopping just short of heaviness, and the bones of
forehead and cheek were prominent and cleanly chiselled, but his eyes
dominated all his other features, pale and implacable as those of one of
the big predatory cats, emphasized by his dark brows.

His shoulders were wide, descending in an inverted pyramid to his hips
and the long clean lines of his legs, and his body had been pared of all
fat and loose flesh, so that each individual muscle was visible beneath
the skin.

Shasa stiffened in his seat as he recognized him.  He chewed angrily,
grinding his teeth together as he remembered the impact of those fists
into his flesh and the suffocating slime of dead fish engulfing him as
clearly as if the intervening years had never been.

I know him, Mater, he growled between clenched teeth.

He is the one I fought on the jetty at Walvis Bay.  Centaine laid a hand
on his arm to restrain him, but she did not look at him nor speak.
Instead, she stole a single glance at Blaine's face, and what she saw
distressed her.

Blaine's expression was grim, and she could feel the anger and the hurt
in him.  He might have been understanding and magnanimous a thousand
miles from here, but with the living proof of her wantonness before him,
he could only be thinking of the man who had made this bastard on her,
and her acquiescence, nay, her joyous participation in the act.

He was thinking of her body which should be his alone, used by a
stranger, by an enemy against whom he had risked his life in battle.

Oh God, why did I come?  She tortured herself, and then she felt
something melt and change shape inside of her and knew the answer.

Flesh of my flesh, she thought.  Blood of my blood.  And she remembered
the weight of him in her womb, and the spasm of burgeoning life deep
within her, and all the instincts of motherhood welled and threatened to
choke her, and the angry birth cry rang again in her head, deafening
her.

My son!  she almost cried aloud.  My own son.  The magnificent fighting
man in the ring turned his head in her direction and saw her for the
first time.  He dropped his hands to his sides, and he lifted his chin
and stared at her with such concentrated venom, with such bitter hatred
in those yellow eyes that it was like the blow of a spiked mace in her
unprotected face.  Then Manfred De La Rey deliberately turned his back
on her and strode to his corner.

The three of them, Blaine, Shasa and Centaine, sat rigid and silent in
the midst of the roaring, chanting, heaving multitude.  Not one of the
three looked at the others, only Centaine moved, twisting the corner of
her sequined shawl in her lap and chewing on her lower lip to prevent it
quivering.

The champion jumped up into the ring.  Ian Rushmore was an inch shorter
than Manfred, but broader and deeper in the chest, with long simian arms
heavily muscled, and a neck so short and thick that his head seemed to
ride directly on his shoulders.  Thick, coarse black hair curled out of
the top of his vest and he looked powerful and dangerous as a wild boar.

The bell rang and in the blood roar of the crowd the two fighters came
together in the middle of the ring.  Centaine gasped involuntarily at
the thud of gloved fist on flesh and bone.  Compared to the flickering
blows of the lighter smaller men in the preceding bouts, this was like
the meeting of gladiators.

She could not see any advantage between the two men as they wheeled and
came together and their fists struck those terrible blows that bounced
off solid guards of arms and gloves.  Then they weaved and ducked and
joined again while the crowd around her bellowed in a mindless frenzy.

As abruptly as it had begun, it ended, and the fighters separated and
went back to the little groups of white-clad seconds who hovered over
them, tending them lovingly, sponging and kneading their flesh, fanning
and massaging and whispering to them.

Manfred took a mouthful from the bottle that his big black bearded coach
held to his mouth.  He sluiced it around his teeth and then turned and
looked at Centaine again, sinmou gling her out of the crowd with those
pale eyes, and deliberately spat the mouthful of water into the bucket
at his feet without breaking his gaze.  She knew that it was for her, he
was spitting his anger at her.  She quailed before his rage and she
barely heard Blaine murmur beside her.

I scored that round as a draw.  De La Rey gave nothing away, and
Rushmore is wary of him., Then the boxers were on their feet again,
circling and jabbing and pumping leather-clad fists, grunting like
labouring bulls at punches thrown and received, their bodies shining
with the running sweat of their exertions and bright red patches glowing
on their bodies where blows landed.  It went on and on, and Centaine
felt a sickness rising in her at the primeval savagery of it, at the
sounds and smell and spectacle of violence and pain.

Rushmore took that one, Blaine said quietly, as the round ended, and she
actually hated him for his calmness.  She felt a clammy sweat break out
on her face and her nausea threatened to overwhelm her as Blaine went
on, De La Rey will have to end it in the next two rounds. If he doesn't,
Rushmore is going to grind him down.  He's getting more confident all
the time.  She wanted to jump to her feet and hurry out of the hall, but
her legs would not function.  Then the bell rang and the two men were
out there again in the glare of floodlights, and she tried to look away
but could not, so she stared in sick fascination and saw it happen, saw
every vivid detail of it, and knew she would never forget it.

She saw the red leather glove blur as it tore through a tiny gap in the
defending circle of arms, and she saw the other man's head snap as
though it had reached the limit of the hangman's noose as his body fell
through the trap.  She saw each individual droplet of sweat burst from
his sodden locks, as though a heavy stone had been flung into a deep
pool, and the features below twisted grotesquely out of shape by the
impact into a carnival mask of agony.

She heard the blow, and the snap of something breaking, teeth or bone or
sinew, and she screamed, but her scream was lost and swallowed up in the
high surf of sound that burst from a thousand throats around her, and
she thrust

her fingers into her own mouth as the blows kept coming, so fast that
they dissolved before her eyes, so fast that the shocking thuds of
impact blended like the sound of an egg-baeter in thick cream, and flesh
turned to red ruin beneath them.  She went on screaming as she watched
the terrible killing yellow rage in the eyes of the son she had borne,
watched him become a ravening murderous beast, and the man before him
wilted and broke, and reeled away on boneless legs, and went down
twisting as he fell and rolled onto his back staring up at the overhead
lights with blind eyes, snoring in the thick bright flood that throbbed
from his crushed nose into his open mouth.  Manfred De La Rey danced
over him, still possessed by the killing rage, so that Centaine expected
him to throw back his head and howl like a wolf, or throw himself upon
the broken thing at his feet and rip the bleeding scalp from its head
and brandish it high in obscene triumph.

Take me away, Blaine, she sobbed.  Get me out of this place, and his
arms lifted her to her feet and carried her out into the night.

Behind her the blood roar faded, and she gulped down the cold sweet
highveld air as though she had been rescued at the very point of
drowning.

The Lion of the Kalahari writes his own ticket to Berlin, the headlines
crowed, and Centaine shuddered with the memory, and dropped the
newspaper over the edge of the bed and reached for the telephone.

Shasa, how soon can we leave for home?  she demanded, as soon as his
voice, blurred with sleep, sounded in her earpiece, and Blaine came
through from the bathroom of the hotel suite with shaving lather on his
cheeks.

You have decided?  he asked as soon as she hung up.

There is no point in even trying to speak to him, she replied. 'You saw
how he looked at me.  Perhaps there will be another time, he tried to
comfort her.  But he saw the despair in her eyes and he went to hold
her.

David Abrahams improved his best time for the 200-metre sprint by almost
a second on the first day of the Olympic trials.  However, in reaction
he did not do as well as expected on the second day when he could only
just win his final heat in the 400 by half a metre.  Still, his name was
high on the list that was read out at the banquet and ball that closed
the five days of the track and field trials, and Shasa, who was sitting
beside him, was the first to shake his hand and pound him between the
shoulder blades.  David was going to Berlin.

Two weeks later the polo trials were held at the Inanda Club in
Johannesburg and Shasa was selected for the T team of possibles against
Blaine's W team of probables for the last match of the final day.

Sitting high in the grandstand, Centaine watched Shasa play one of the
most inspired games of his career, but with despair in her heart knew
that it was still not good enough.

Shasa never missed an interception, nor mis-hit a stroke during the
first five chukkas, and once even took the ball out from under the nose
of Blaine's pony with a display of audacious riding that brought every
person in the grandstand to their feet.  Still it was not good enough,
she knew.

Clive Ramsay, Shasa's rival for the position of number two in the team
that would go to Berlin, had played well all week.  He was a man of
forty-two years, with a record of solid achievement behind him, and he
had seconded Blaine Malcomess in almost thirty international matches.
His polo career was just reaching its peak, and Centaine knew that the
selectors could not afford to drop him in favour of the younger, more
dashing, probably more gifted, but certainly less experienced and
therefore less reliable rider.

She could almost see them nodding their heads sagely,

puffing their cigars and agreeing.  Young Courtney will get his chance
next time, and she was hating them for it in advance,, Blaine Malcomess
included, when suddenly there was a howl from the crowd around her and
she jumped to her feet with them.

Shasa, thank God, was out of it, galloping wide down the sideline ready
to take the cross as his own number one, another thrusting young player,
challenged Clive Ramsay in centre field.

It was probably not deliberate, more likely the consequence of a
reckless urge to shine, but Shasa's team-mate fouled Clive Ramsay
murderously on the interception, knocking his pony onto its knees and
sending Clive somersaulting from the saddle onto the iron-hard ground.
Later that afternoon X-ray examination confirmed a multiple fracture of
Ramsay's femur which the orthopaedic surgeon was subsequently forced to
open up and wire.

No polo for at least a year, he ordered, when Clive Ramsay came out of
the anaesthetic.

So when the selectors went into conclave, Centaine waited anxiously,
allowing herself renewed hope.  As he had warned Centaine he would,
Blaine Malcomess excused himself from the selectors room when Shasa's
name came up.

But when he was called back in, the chairman grunted.

Very well, young Courtney gets the ride in Clive's place.  And despite
himself he felt a lift of elation and pride, Shasa JA Courtney was the
closest he would ever get to having a son of his own.

As soon as he could, Blaine telephoned Centaine with the news. 'It won't
be announced until Friday, but Shasa has got his ticket. Centaine was
beside herself .  Oh Blaine, darling, how will I contain myself until
Friday?  she cried.  Oh won't it be fun going to Berlin together, the
three of us!  We can take the Daimler and drive across Europe.  Shasa
has never visited Mort Homme.  We can spend a few days in Paris, and you
can take me to dinner at Laserre There is so much to arrange, but we can
talk about it when I see you on Saturday. 'Saturday?  He had forgotten,
she could hear it in his voice.

Sir Garry's birthday, the picnic on the mountain!  She sighed with
exasperation.  Oh Blaine, it's one of the few times in the year we can
be together, legitimately!  Is it Sir Garry's birthday again so soon?
What happened to the year?  he hedged.

Oh, Blaine, you did forget, she accused.  You can't let me down. It will
be a double celebration this year, the birthday, and Shasa's selection
for the Games.  Promise you will be there, Blaine.  He hesitated an
instant longer.  He had already promised to take Isabella and the girls
to her mother's home at Franschoek for the weekend.

I promise, my sweeting, I'll be there.  She would never know what that
promise would cost him, for Isabella would make him pay with exquisite
refinements of cruelty for the broken pledge.

it was the drug which had wrought this change in Isabella, he kept
assuring himself.  Beneath it she was still the same sweet and gentle
person he had married.  It was the unremitting pain and the drug which
had ravaged her so, and he tried to maintain his respect and affection
for her.

He tried to remember her loveliness, as delicate and ethereal as the
bloom on the petals of a new-blown rose, but that loveliness had long
since disappeared and the petals of the rose had withered, and the smell
of corruption was upon her.  The sweet sickly smell of the drug exuded
from every pore of her skin and the deep never-healing abscesses in her
buttocks and at the base of her spine gave off an odour, faint but
penetrating, that he had come to abhor.  It made it difficult for him to
be near her.  The smell and the sight of her offended him but at the
same time filled him with helpless pity and corrosive guilt at his
infidelity to her.

She had wasted to a skeleton.  There was no flesh on the bones of those
frail legs, they looked like the legs of one of the wading water birds,
perfectly straight and shapeless, distorted only by the lumpy knots of
her knees and the useless disproportionately large feet at their
extremities.

Her arms were just as thin, and the flesh had receded from the bones of
her skull.  Her lips had drawn back so that her teeth were prominent and
exposed, and looked like those of a skull when she tried to smile or
more often grimaced with anger, and her gums were pale, almost white.

Her skin also was pale as rice-paper, and as dry and lifeless, so thin
and translucent that the veins of her hands and forehead showed through
it in a blue tracery and her eyes were the only living things in her
face.  They had a malicious glitter in them now, as though she resented
him for his healthy lusty body when her own was destroyed and useless.

How can you, Blaine?  she asked the question with the same accusing
high-pitched whine that she had used countless times before. 'You
promised me, Blaine.  God knows, I see little enough of you as it is.
I've been looking forward to this weekend since,, It went on and on, and
he tried to shut it out, but he found himself thinking of her body
again.

He had not seen her unclothed in almost seven years, then only a month
previously he had walked into her dressing-room believing that she was
in the gazebo in the garden where she spent most of her day, but she was
laid out naked on the white sheet of the massage table with her
uniformed day nurse working over her and the shock must have shown
clearly on his face as the two women looked up at him, startled.

Every rib stood out of Isabella's narrow chest and her breasts were
empty pouches of skin that drooped under her armpits.  The dark bush of
her pubic hair was incongruous and obscene in the bony basin of her
pelvis below which those sticklike legs protruded at a disjointed angle,
so shrunken that the gap between her thighs was wider than the span of
his hands.

Get out!  she had screamed at him, and he had torn his eyes from her and
hurried from the room.  Get out!  Don't ever come in here again!  Now
her voice had the same ring to it.  Go to your picnic then, if you must.
I know what a burden I am to you.  I know you can't bear to spend more
than a few minutes in my presence, He could not stand it any longer, and
he held up a hand to quieten her.  You are right, my dear.  It was
selfish of me to even mention it.  We won't speak of it again.  Of
course I will go with you.  He saw the vindictive sparkle of triumph in
her eyes, and suddenly for the very first time he hated her, and before
he could prevent himself, he thought, Why doesn't she die?  It would be
better for her and everybody about her if she were dead.  instantly he
was appalled at himself and guilt washed over him so that he went to her
quickly and stooped over the wheelchair, took that cold bony hand in
both of his and squeezed it gently as he kissed her on the lips.

Forgive me, please, he whispered, but unbidden the image of her in her
coffin appeared to him.  She lay there, beautiful and serene as she had
once been, her hair once again thick and lustrous auburn spread on the
white satin pillow.  He shut his eyes tightly to try and drive the image
away, but it persisted even when she clung to his hand.

Oh, it will be such fun to be alone together for a while.  She prevented
him pulling away.  We have so few opportunities to talk any more.  You
spend so much time in Parhament, and when you aren't about your cabinet
duties you are out on the polo field.  I see you every day, morning and
evening.  Oh, I know, but we never talk.  We haven't even discussed
Berlin yet, and the time is running out.  Is there much we should
discuss, my dear?  he asked carefully as he disengaged her grip and
returned to his own chair on the opposite side of the gazebo.

Of course there is, Blaine.  She smiled at him, exposing those pale gums
behind shrunken lips.  It gave her a cunning, almost ferrety, expression
which he found disturbing.  There are so many arrangements to make. When
is the team leaving?  I may not travel with the team, he told her
carefully.  I may leave a few weeks earlier and stop off in London and
Paris for discussions with the British and French Governments before
going on to Berlin.  Oh Blaine, we must still make the arrangements for
me to go with you, she said and he had to control his expression for she
was watching him carefully.

Yes, he said.  It will need careful planning.  The idea was
insupportable.  How he longed to be with Centaine, to be able to get
away from all pretence and fear of discovery.  We shall have to be very
certain, my dear, that travelling will not seriously impair your health
further.  You don't want me with you, do you?  Her voice rose sharply.

Of course It's a wonderful chance for you to get away from me, to escape
from me.  Isabella, please calm yourself.  You will do yourself Don't
pretend you care about me, I've been a burden on you for nine years. I'm
sure you wish me dead.  Isabella, He was shaken by the accuracy of the
accusation.

Oh, don't play the saint with me, Blaine Malcomess.  I may be locked
into this chair, but I see things and I hear things.  I don't wish to
continue like this.  He stood up.  We'll talk again once you have
control Sit down!  she screeched at him.  I won't have you running off
to your French whore as you always do!  He flinched as though she had
struck him in the face, and she went on gloatingly, There, I've said it
at last.  Oh God, you'll never know how close I've been to saying it so
many times.  You'll never know how good it feels to say it, whore! Doxy!
If you continue, I will leave, he warned.

Harlot, she said with relish.  Slut!  Jade!  He turned on his heel and
went down the steps of the gazebo two at a time.

Blaine, she screamed after him.  Come back!  He continued walking up
towards the house, and her tone changed.

Blaine, I'm sorry.  I apologize.  Please come back.  Please!  and he
could not refuse her.  Reluctantly he turned back, and found that his
hands were shaking with shock and anger.

He thrust them into his pockets and stopped at the top of the steps.

All right, he said softly.  It's true about Centaine Courtney. I love
her.  But it is also true that we have done everything in our power to
prevent you being hurt or humiliated.

So don't ever talk like that about her again.  If she had allowed it, I
would have gone to her years ago, and left you.

May God forgive me, but I would have walked out on you!

Only she kept me here, only she still keeps me here.  She was chastened
and shaken as he was, or so he thought, until she raised her eyes again
and he saw that she had feigned repentance merely to lure him back
within range of her tongue.  I know I cannot go to Berlin with you,
Blaine.

I have already asked Dr Joseph and he has forbidden it.  He says the
journey would kill me.  However, I know what you are planning, you and
that woman.  I know you have used all your influence to get Shasa
Courtney into the team merely to give her an excuse to be there.  I know
you are planning a wonderful illicit interlude, and I can't stop you
going, He spread his hands in angry resignation.  It was useless to
protest and her voice rose again into that harrowing shrillness.

Well, let me tell you this, it isn't going to be the honeymoon that the
two of you think it is.  I've told the girls, both Tara and Mathilda
Janine, that they are going with you.

I've told them already, and they are beside themselves with excitement.
it will be up to you.  Either you are heartless enough to disappoint
your own daughters, or you will be playing baby-sitter and not Romeo in
Berlin.  Her voice rose even higher, and the glitter of her eyes was
vindictive.  And I warn you!  if you refuse to take them with you,
Blaine Malcomess, I will tell them why.  I call on God as my witness, I
will tell them that their beloved daddy is a cheat and a liar, a
libertine and a whoremaster!  Although everybody, from the most
knowledgeable sports writers to the lowliest fight fan, had confidently
expected Manfred De La Rey to be on the boxing squad to go to Berlin,
when the official announcement of the team was made and he was indeed
the light heavyweight selection, but in addition Roelf Stander was the
heavyweight choice and the Reverend Tromp Bierman was given the duties
of official team coach, the entire town and university body of
Stellenbosch erupted in spontaneous expressions of pride and delight.

There was a civic reception and parade through the streets of the town,
while at a mass meeting of the Ossewa Brandwag the commanding general
held them up as an example of Afrikaner manhood and extolled their
dedication and fighting skills.

It is young men such as these who will lead our nation to its rightful
place in this land, he told them, and while the massed uniformed ranks
gave the OB salute, the clenched right fist held across the chest,
Manfred and Roelf had the badges of officer rank pinned to their tunics.

For God and the Volk, their high commander exhorted them, and Manfred
had never before experienced such pride, such determination to honour
the trust that had been placed in him.

over the weeks that followed, the excitement continued to build up.
There were fittings at the official team tailor for the gold and green
blazers, white slacks and broad-brimmed Panama hats which made up the
uniform in which they would march into the Olympic stadium.  There were
endless team briefings, covering every subject from German etiquette and
polite behaviour to travel arrangements and profiles of the opponents
whom they were likely to encounter on the way to the final.

Both Manfred and Roelf were interviewed by journalists from every
magazine and newspaper in the country, and a half an hour on the
nationally broadcast radio programme This is your Land was devoted
entirely to them.

Only one person seemed unaffected by the excitement.

The weeks you are away will seem longer than my whole life, Sarah told
Manfred.

Don't be a silly little duck, he laughed at her.  It will all be over
before you know it, and I'll be back with a gold medal on my chest.
Don't call me a silly little duck,she flashed at him, not ever again! He
stopped laughing.  You are right, he said.  You are worth more than
that.  Sarah had taken on herself the duties of timekeeper and second
for Manfred's and Roelf's evening training runs. On flying bare feet she
took short cuts up the hillside and through the forest to wait for them
at prearranged spots with her stopwatch, borrowed from Uncle Tromp, a
wet sponge and a flask of cold freshly squeezed orange juice to refresh
them.  As soon as they had sponged down, drunk and set off again she
would race away, cutting over the crest of the hill or through the
valley to wait for them at the next stage.

Two weeks before the sailing date, Roelf was forced to miss one of the
evening runs when he was obliged to chair an extraordinary meeting of
the students representative council and Manfred made the run alone.

He took the long steep side of the Hartenbosch mountain at a full run,
going with all his strength, flying up the slope with long elastic
strides, lifting his gaze to the crest.  Sarah was waiting for him
there, and the low autumn sun was behind her, crowning her with gold and
striking through the thin stuff of her skirts so that her legs were
silhouetted and he could see every line and lovely angle of her body
almost as though she were unclothed.

He pulled up involuntarily in full stride and stood staring up at her,
his chest heaving and his heart pounding, not only from his exertions.

She is beautiful.  He was amazed that he had never seen it before, and
he walked up the last angle of the slope slowly, staring at her,
confused by this sudden realization and by the hollow hunger, the need
that he had kept suppressed, whose existence he had never admitted to
himself but which now suddenly threatened to consume him.

She came to meet him the last few paces; barefoot she was so much
smaller than he was and that seemed only to increase this terrible
hunger.  She held out the sponge to him, but when he made no move to
take it from her, she stepped up close to him and reached up to wipe the
sweat from his neck and shoulders.

I dreamed last night we were back in the camp, she whispered as she
worked, swabbing his upper arms.  Do you remember the camp beside the
railway tracks, Manie?  He nodded.  His throat had closed, and he could
not reply.

I saw my ma lying in the grave.  It was a terrible thing.

Then it changed, Manie, it wasn't my ma any more, it was you.  You were
so pale and handsome, but I knew I had lost you, and I was so eaten by
my own sorrow that I wanted to die also and be with you for ever.  He
reached out and took her in his arms and she sobbed and fell against
him.  Her body felt so cool and soft and compliant and her voice shook.

Oh, Manie.  I don't want to lose you.  Please come back to me, without
you I don't want to go on living.  I love you, Sarie.  His voice was
hoarse and she jerked in his arms.

Oh Manie.  I never realized it before, he croaked.

oh Manie, I have always realized it.  I loved you from the first minute
of the first day, and I will love you until the last, she cried, and
turned her mouth up to his.  Kiss me, Manie, kiss me or I will die.  The
touch of her mouth ignited something within him, and the fire and the
smoke of it obscured reason and reality.

Then they were under the pines beside the path, lying on a bed of soft
needles, and the sultry autumn air was soft as silk upon his bare back,
but not as soft as her body beneath his nor as hot as the liquid depths
in which she engulfed him.

He did not understand what had happened until she cried out, in pain and
intense joy, but by then it was too late and he found himself answering
her cry, no longer able to draw back, carried along on a swirling tidal
wave to a place he had never been before, nor had he even dreamed of its
existence.

Reality and consciousness returned slowly from far away, and he drew
away from her and stared at her in horror, putting on his own clothing.

What we have done is wicked beyond forgiveness No.  She shook her head
vehemently and, still naked, reached for him.  No, Manie, it's not
wicked when two people love each other.  How can it be wicked?

It's a thing from God, beautiful and holy.  The night before Manfred
sailed for Europe with Uncle Tromp and the team, he slept in his old
room at the Manse.

When the old house was dark and quiet, Sarah crept down the passage.  He
had left his door unlatched.  Nor did he protest as she let her
nightdress fall and crept under the sheet beside him.

She stayed until the doves in the oaks outside the stoep began
fluttering and softly cooing.  Then she kissed him one last time and
whispered: Now we belong to each other, for ever and always.  It was
only half an hour before sailing and Centaine's stateroom was so crowded
that the stewards were forced to pass the champagne glasses over the
heads of the guests, and it required a major expedition to get from one
side of the cabin to the other.  The only one of Centaine's friends who
was not present was Blaine Malcomess.  They had decided not to advertise
the fact that they were sailing on the same mail ship, and had agreed
only to meet once they were clear of the harbour.

Both Abe Abrahams, bursting with pride, his arm hooked through David's,
and Dr Twenty-man-jones, tall and lugubrious as a marabou stork, were in
the party around Centaine.

They had come all the way down from Windhoek to see her off. Naturally,
Sir Garry and Anna were there, as were the Ou Baas General Smuts, and
his little fluffy-haired wife with her steel-rimmed spectacles making
her look like an ad:rtisement for Mazzawattee tea.

the far corner Shasa was surrounded by a bevy of young ladies, and was
in the middle of a story that was being followed with shrieks of
amusement and gasps of increduous wo rider, when suddenly he lost track
of what he had been saying and stared out of the porthole beside him.

Through it he had a view out onto the boat deck, and what had caught his
attention was a glimpse of a girl's head as she passed.

He couldn't see her face, just the side and back of her head, a cascade
of auburn curls set on a long slim neck, and a little ear sticking out
of the curls at a jaunty angle.  It was a fleeting glimpse only, but
something about the angle and carriage of that head made him lose
immediate interest in the females in front of him.

He went up on his toes, spilling champagne, and stuck his head through
the porthole, but the girl had passed by and he only had a back view of
her.  She had an impossibly narrow waist but a cheeky little rump that
switched from side to side and made her skirts swing rhythmically as she
walked.  Her calves were perfectly turned and her ankles slim and neat.
She went round the corner with a last twitch of her bottom, leaving
Shasa determined that he must get a look at her face.

Excuse me, ladies.  His audience gave little cries of disappointment,
but he eased himself neatly out of their circle and began working his
way towards the door.  But before he reached it, the sirens started
their booming thunder of warning and the cry went up, 'Last call, ladies
and gentlemen all ashore, those who are going ashore, and he knew he had
run out of time.

She was probably a dog, a backside like heaven and a face like hell, and
she almost certainly isn't sailing, anyway, he consoled himself.  Then
Dr Twenty-man-Jones was shaking his hand and wishing him luck for the
Games, and he tried to forget that bunch of auburn curls and concentrate
on his social duties, but it wasn't all that easy.

out on deck he looked for an auburn head going down the gangway, or in
the crowd on the quayside, but Centaine was tugging at his arm as the
gap between ship and land opened below them.

Come, cheri, let's go and check the dining-room seating.  But you have
been invited to the captain's table, Mater, he protested. 'here was an
invitation in the, Yes, but you and David haven't, she pointed out. Come
along, David, let's go and find where they have put the two of you, and
have it changed if it's not suitable.  She was up to something& Shasa
realized.  Normally she would take the seating for granted, secure in
the knowledge that her name was all the guarantee of preference that was
necessary, but now she was insistent, and she had that look in her eye
which he knew so well, and which he called her 'Machiavellian sparkle.

Come along then, he agreed indulgently, and the three of them went down
the walnut-panelled staircase to the first class dining-room on the deck
below.

At the foot of the stairs a small group of seasoned travellers were
being affable to the head waiter; five-pound notes were disappearing
like magic into that urbane gentleman's pocket, leaving no bulge, and
names were being rubbed out and re-pencilled on the seating plan.

Standing a little apart from the group was a tall familiar figure that
Shasa recognized instantly.  Something about him, the expectant turn of
his head towards the staircase, told Shasa he was waiting for someone,
and his dazzling smile as he saw Centaine made it clear who that someone
was.

Good Lord, Mater, Shasa exclaimed.  I didn't realize Blaine was sailing
today, I thought he would be going later with the others, he broke off .
He had felt his mother's grip on his forearm tighten and the quick catch
of her breath as she saw Blaine.

They have arranged this, he realized with a flare of amazement. 'That's
what her excitement was.  And at last it dawned upon him.  You never
think it of your own mother, but they are lovers.  All these years, and
I never saw it.  The little things, insignificant at the time but now
full of meaning, came crowding back.  Blaine and the mater, damn me
blind!  Who would have thought it and conflicting emotions assailed him.
Of all men in the world, I would have chosen him, in that moment he
realized how much Blaine Malcomess had come to stand in the place of the
father he had never known, but the thought was followed instantly by a
flush of jealous and moral indignation. 'Blaine Malcomess, pillar of
society and government, and Mater who is always frowning and shaking her
head at me, the naughty little devils, they have been raving away for
years without anybody suspecting! Blaine was coming towards them.
Centaine, this is a surprise!  Mater was laughing and holding out her
right hand to him.

Gracious me, Blaine Malcomess, I had no idea you were on board. Shasa
thought wryly: What marvelous acting!  You have had me and everybody
fooled for years.  The two of you make Clark Gable and Ingrid Bergman
look like a pair of beginners!  Then suddenly it didn't matter any more.
The only thing that was important was that there were two girls
following Blaine as he came towards Centaine.

Centaine, I'm sure you remember my two daughters.  This is Tara and this
is Mathilda Janine, Tara.  Silently Shasa sang the name in his head.
Tara what a lovely name.  It was the girl he had glimpsed on the boat
deck, and she was only one hundred times more stunning than he had hoped
she might be.

Tara.  She was tall, only a few inches below his own six foot, but her
legs were like willow wands and her waist was like a reed.

Tara.  She had the face of a madonna, a serene oval, and her complexion
was a mixture of cream and flower petals, almost too perfect, yet
redeemed from insipid vacuity by the smoking chestnut hair, her father's
wide strong mouth and her own eyes, resilient as grey steel and bright
with intelhgence and determination.

She greeted Centaine with the correct amount of deference and then
turned to look directly at Shasa.

Shasa, you too remember Tara, Blaine told him.  She came out to
Weltevreden four years ago.  Was this the same noisy little pest? Shasa
stared at her the one in short skirts with scabs on her bony knees who
had embarrassed him with her boisterous and childish capers? He could
not believe it was, and his voice caught in his throat.

How good to see you again, Tara, after so long.  Remember, Tara
Malcomess, she cautioned herself.  Be controlled and aloof.  She almost
shivered with shame as she remembered how she had gambolled and fawned
around him like a puppy begging to be patted.  What a callow little
beast, I was.  But she had been smitten by a crush so powerful at first
sight of him that the pain of it still lingered even now.

However, she managed to display the right shade of indifference as she
murmured, Oh have we met?  I must have forgotten, forgive me.  She held
out her hand.  Well, it's pleasant to meet you again, Shasa? 'Yes,
Shasa, he agreed, and he took the hand as though it were a holy
talisman.  Why haven't we met again since then?  he asked himself, and
immediately he saw the answer.

It was deliberate.  Blaine and Mater made damn sure that we never met
again in case it complicated their own little arrangement.  They did not
want Tara reporting back to her mama.  But he was too happy to be angry
with them now.

Have you made your table reservations?  he asked, without relinquishing
her hand.

Daddy is sitting at the captain's table, Tara pouted lovingly at her
father.  And we are to be left all alone.  The four of us can sit
together, Shasa suggested quickly.

Let's go and talk to the Maitre.  Blaine and Centaine exchanged relieved
glances, it was all going exactly as they had planned, with one twist
they had not foreseen.

Mathilda Janine had blushed as she shook hands with David Abrahams.  Of
the two sisters, she was the ugly duckling for she had inherited not
only her father's wide mouth but his large nose and prominent ears as
well, and her hair was not auburn but ginger carrot.

But he's got a big nose too, she thought defiantly, as she studied
David, and then her thoughts went off on a tangent.

If Tara tells him I'm only sixteen I'll just die!  The voyage was a
tempest of emotions, full of delights and surprises and frustrations and
agonies for all of them.

During the fourteen days of the passage to Southampton Blaine and
Centaine saw very little of the four youngsters, meeting them for a
cocktail beside the ship's pool before lunch and for a duty dance after
dinner, David and Shasa each taking a turn at whirling Centaine around
the floor while Blaine did the same to his daughters.  Then there would
be a quick exchange of glances between the four young people and they
would make their elaborate excuses before all disappearing down into the
tourist class where the real fun was, leaving Blaine and Centaine to
their staid pleasures on the upper decks.

Tara in a one-piece bathing costume of lime green was the most
magnificent sight Shasa had ever laid eyes upon.  Her breasts under the
clinging material were the shape of unripe pears and when she came from
the pool with water streaming down those long elegant limbs, he could
make out the dimple of her navel through the cloth and the hard little
marbles of her nipples, and it took all his control to prevent himself
groaning out loud.

Mathilda Janine and David discovered a mutual zany and irreverent sense
of humour, and kept each other in convulsions of laughter most of the
time.  Mathilda Janine was up at four-thirty each morning, no matter how
late they had got to bed, to give David raucous encouragement as he made
his fifty circuits of the boat deck.

He moves like a panther, she told herself.  Long and smooth and
graceful.  And she had to think up fifty new witticisms each morning to
shout at him as he went bounding past her.  They chased each other
around the pool and wrestled ecstatically below the surface; once they
had managed to fall in locked in each other's arms, but, apart from a
furtive pecking kiss at the door of the cabin that Mathilda.  Janine
shared with Tara, neither of them even considered carrying it any
further.  Although David had benefited from his brief relationship with
the Camel, it never occurred to him to indulge in the same acrobatics
with someone as special as Matty.

Shasa on the other hand suffered under no such inhibitions.  He was
vastly more sexually experienced than David, and once he had recovered
from the initial awe of Tara's beauty, he launched an insidious but
determined assault on the fortress of her virginity. However, his
rewards were even less spectacular than David's.

it took him almost a week to work up to the stage of intimacy where Tara
would allow him to spread suntan oil on her back and shoulders.  In the
small hours of the morning when the lights on the dance floor were
dimmed for the last dance and the band played the sugary romantic
Poinciana', she laid her velvet-soft cheek against his, but when he
tried to press his lower body against hers, she allowed it for only
moments before she arched her back, and when he tried to kiss her at the
cabin door she held him off with both hands on his chest and gave him
that low tantalizing laugh.

The silly little witch is totally frigid,, Shasa told his reflection in
the shaving mirror.  She probably has an iceberg in her knickers.
Thought of those regions made him shiver with frustration, and he
resolved to break off the chase.  He thought of the five or six other
females on board, not all of them young, who had looked at him with
unmistakable invitation in their eyes.  I could have any or all of them
instead of panting along behind Miss Tin Knickers, But an hour later he
was partnering her in the mixed doubles deck quoit championships, or
smoothing suntan oil on that flawless finely muscled back with fingers
that trembled with agonized desire, or trying to keep level with her in
a discussion of the merits and demerits of the government's plans to
disenfranchise the coloured voters of the Cape Province.

He had discovered with some dismay that Tara Malcomess had a highly
developed political conscience, and that even though it was vaguely
understood between him and Mater that Shasa would one day go into
politics and parliament, his grasp of and interest in the complex
problems of the country was not of the same calibre as Tara's.  She held
views that were almost as disturbing to him as her physical attractions.

I believe, as Daddy does, that far from taking the vote away from the
few black people who have it, we should be giving it to all of them. All
of them!  Shasa was appalled.  You don't really believe that, do you? Of
course I do.  Not all at once, but on a civilization basis, government
by those who have proved fit to govern.  Give the vote to all those who
have the right standards of education and responsibility.  In two
generations every man and woman, black or white, could be on the roll.
Shasa shuddered at the thought, his own aspirations to a seat in the
house would not survive that, but this was probably the least radical of
her opinions.

How can we prevent people from owning land in their own country or from
selling their labour in the best market, or prohibit them from
collective bargaining?  Trade unions were the tools of Lenin and the
devil.  That was a fact Shasa had taken in with his mother's milk.

She's a bolshy, but, God, what a beautiful bolshy!  he thought, and
pulled her to her feet to break the unpalatable lecture.  Come on, let's
go for a swim.  He's an ignorant fascist, she thought furiously, but
when she saw the way the other women looked at him from behind their
sunglasses, she wanted to claw their eyes out of their faces, and at
night in her bunk when she thought about the touch of his hands on her
bare back, and the feel of him against her on the dance floor, she
blushed in the darkness at the fantasies that filled her head.

If I just let it start, just the barest beginning, I know I won't be
able to stop him, I won't even want to stop him, I and she steeled
herself against him.  Controlled and aloof, she repeated, like a charm
against the treacherous wiles of her own body.

By some extraordinary coincidence it just so happened that Blaine
Malcomess had shipped his Bentley in the hold, alongside Centaine's
Daimler.

We could drive to Berlin in convoy, Centaine exclaimed as though the
idea had just occurred to her, and there was clamorous acceptance of the
idea from the four younger members of the party, and immediate jockeying
and lobbying for seats in the two vehicles.  Centaine and Blaine,
protesting mildly, allowed themselves to be allocated the Bentley while
the others, driven by Shasa, would follow in the Daimler.

From Le Havre they drove the dusty roads of north-western France,
through the town that still had the ring of terror in their names,
Amiens and Arras.  The green grass had covered the muddy battlefields
where Blaine had fought, but the fields of white crosses were bright as
daisies in the sunlight.

May God grant that mankind never has to live through that again, Blaine
murmured, and Centaine reached across and took his hand.

in the little village of Mort Homme they parked in front of the auberge
in the main street, and when Centaine walked in through the front door
to enquire for lodgings, Madame behind the desk recognized her instantly
and screeched with excitement.

Henri, viens vite!  Cest Mademoisefle de Thiry du chateau, and she
rushed to embrace Centaine and buss her on both cheeks.

A travelling salesman was ousted, and the best rooms put at their
disposal; a little explanation was needed when Centaine and Blaine asked
for separate accommodation, but the meal they were served that night was
exquisitely nostalgic for Centaine, with all the specialities - terrines
and truffles and tartes, with the wine of the region, while Madame stood
beside the table and gave Centaine all the gossip, the deaths and
births, the marriages and elopernents and liaisons of the last nineteen
years.

In the early morning Centaine and Shasa left the others sleeping, and
drove up to the chateau.  It was rubble and black scorched walls,
pierced with empty windows and shell holes, overgrown and desolate, and
Centaine stood in the ruins and wept for her father who had burned with
the great house rather than abandon it to the advancing Germans.

After the war the estate had been sold off to pay the debts that the old
man had accumulated over a lifetime of good living and hard drinking. It
was now owned by Hennessy, the great cognac firm; the old man would have
enjoyed that little irony, Centaine smiled at the thought.

Together they climbed the hillock beyond the ruined chAteau and from the
crest Centaine pointed out the orchard and plantation that marked the
old wartime airfield.

That is where your father's squadron was stationed, on the edge of the
orchard.  I waited here every morning for the squadron to take off, and
I would wave them away to battle.  They flew SE5a's didn't they?  Only
later.  At first it was the old Sopwiths.  She was looking up at the
sky.  Your father's machine was painted bright yellow.  I called him le
petit jaune, the little yellow one, I can see him now in his flying
helmet.  He used to lift the goggles so I could see his eyes as he flew
past me.

Oh Shasa, how noble and gay and young he was, a young eagle going up
into the blue.  They descended the hillock and drove slowly back between
the vineyards.  Centaine asked Shasa to stop beside a small stone-walled
barn at the corner of North Field.  He watched her, puzzled, as she
stood for a few minutes in the doorway of the thatched building and then
came back to the Daimler with a faint smile on her lips and a soft glow
in her eyes.

She saw his enquiring look and told him, Your father and I used to meet
here.  In a clairvoyant insight Shasa realized that in this rickety old
building in a foreign land he had been conceived.  The strangeness of
this knowledge remained with him as they drove back towards the auberge.

At the entrance to the village in front of the little church with its
green copper spire, they stopped again and went into the cemetery.
Michael Courtney's grave was at the far end, beneath a yew tree.
Centaine had ordered the headstone from Africa but had never seen it
before.  A marble eagle, perched on a tattered battle standard, was on
the point of flight, with wings spread.  Shasa thought it was a little
too flamboyant for a memorial to the dead.

They stood side by side and read the inscription: SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF CAPTAIN MICHAEL COURTNEY RFC KILLED IN ACTION 19 APRIL 1917.

GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN.

Weeds had grown up around the headstone, and they knelt together and
tidied the grave.  Then they stood at the foot of it, their heads bowed.

Shasa had expected to be profoundly moved by his father's grave, but
instead he felt remote and untouched.  The man beneath the headstone had
become clay long before he was born.  He had felt closer to Michael
Courtney six thousand miles from here when he had slept in his bed, worn
his old thomproof tweed jacket, handled his Purdey shotgun and his
fishing-rods, or used his gold-nibbed pen and his platinum and onyx
dress studs.

They went back along the path to the church and found the village priest
in the vestry.  He was a young man, not much older than Shasa, and
Centaine was disappointed for his youth seemed to her a break in her
tenuous link to Michael and the past.  However, she wrote out two large
cheques, one for the repairs to the church's copper spire, and the other
to pay for fresh flowers to be placed on Michael's grave each Sunday in
perpetuity, and they went back to the Daimler with the priest's fervent
benedictions following them.

The following day they all drove on to Paris; Centaine had wired ahead
for accommodation at the Ritz in the Place Vendeme.

Blaine and Centaine had a full round of engagements meetings, luncheons
and dinners, with various members of the French government, so the four
younger members of the party were left to their own devices and they
very soon discovered that Paris was the city of romance and excitement.

They rode to the first stage of the Eiffel Tower in one of the creaking
elevators and then raced each other up the open steel staircase to the
very top and oohed and aahed at the city spread below them.  They
strolled with arms linked along the footpath on the riverbank and under
the fabulous bridges of the Seine.  With her baby box Brownie, Tara
photographed them on the steps of Montmartre with the Sacre

Coeur as a backdrop; they drank coffee and ate croissants in the
sidewalk cafes and lunched at the Cafe de la Paix, dined at La Coupole
and saw La Traviata at the Opra.

At midnight when the girls had said goodnight to Centaine and their
father and retired demurely and dutifully to their room, Shasa and David
smuggled them out over the balcony and they went dancing in the boites
on the Left Bank or sat listening to jazz in the cellars of
Montparnasse, where they discovered a black trombone player who blew a
horn that made your spine curl and a little brasserie where you could
eat snails and wild strawberries at three in the morning.

In the last dawn, as they crept down the corridor to get the girls back
to their room, they heard familiar voices in the elevator cage as it
came up to their floor, and only just in time the four of them dived
down the staircase and lay in a heap on the first landing, the girls
stuffing handkerchiefs into their mouths to stifle their giggles, while
just above them Blaine and Centaine, resplendent in full evening dress
and oblivious of their presence, left the elevator and arm in arm
strolled down the passage towards Centaine's suite.

They left Paris with regret and reached the German border in high
spirits.  They presented their passports to the French douaniers and
were waved through to the German side with typical Gallic panache. They
left the Bentley and Daimler parked at the barrier and trooped into the
German border post where they were struck immediately by the difference
in attitude between the two groups of officials.

The two German officers were meticulously turned out, their leather
polished to a gloss, their caps set at the exact regulation angle and
the black swastikas in a field of crimson and white on their left arms.
From the wall behind their desk, a framed portrait of the Fuhrer, stern
and moustached, glowered down upon them.

Blaine laid the sheaf of passports on the desk top in front of them with
a friendly Guten Tag, mein Herr', and stood chatting to Centaine while
one of the officials went through the passports one at a time, comparing
each of the holders to his or her photograph and then stamping the visa
with the black eagle and swastika device, before going on to the next
document.

Dave Abrahams passport was at the bottom of the pile, and when the
officer came to it, he paused and re-read the front cover and then
pedantically turned and perused every single page in the document,
looking up at David again and scrutinizing his features after each page.
After a few minutes of this the group around David fell silent and began
exchanging puzzled glances.

I think something is wrong, Blaine,Centaine said quietly, and he went
back to the desk.

Problem?  Blaine asked, and the official answered him in stilted but
correct English.

Abrahams, it is a Jewish name, no?  Blaine flushed with irritation, but
before he could reply David stepped up to the desk beside him.  It's a
Jewish name, yes!  he said quietly, and the official nodded
thoughtfully, tapping the passport with his forefinger.

You admit you are Jewish?  I am Jewish, David replied in the same level
tone.

It is not written in your passport that you are Jewish, the customs
officer pointed out.

Should it be?  David asked.  The officer shrugged, then asked, 'You wish
to enter Germany, and you are Jewish?  I wish to enter Germany to take
part in the Olympic Games, to which I have been invited by the German
government.  Ah!  You are an Olympic athlete, a Jewish Olympic athlete?
No, I am a South African Olympic athlete.  Is my visa in order?  The
official did not reply to the question.  Wait here, please.  He went
through the rear door, carrying David's passport with him.

They heard him speaking to someone in the back office, and they all
looked at Tara.  She was the only one in the party who understood a
little German, she had studied the language for her matriculation
examinations and passed it on the Higher Grade.

What is he saying?  Blaine asked.

They are talking too fast, a lot about "Jews" and "Olympics", Tara
answered, then the rear door opened and the original official came back
with a plump rosy-faced man who was clearly his superior, for his
uniform and his manner were grander.

Who is Abrahams?  he demanded.

I am!

You are a Jew?  You admit you are a Jew?  Yes, I am a Jew.  I have said
so many times.  Is there something wrong with my visa?  You will wait,
please.  This time all three officials retired to the rear office, once
more taking David's passport with them.  They heard the tinkle of a
telephone bell, and then the senior officer's voice, loud and
obsequious.

What's going on?  They looked to Tara.

He's talking to somebody in Berlin, Tara told them.  He's explaining
about David.  The one-sided conversation in the next room ended with
Jawohl, mein Kapitdn, repeated four times, each time louder, and then a
shouted Heil Hitler!  and the tinkle of the telephone.

The three officials filed back into the front office.  The rosy-faced
superior stamped David's passport and handed it to him with a flourish.

Welcome to the Third Reich!  he declared, and flung his right hand up,
palm open, and extended towards them, and shouted, Heil Hitler! Mathilda
Janine burst into nervous giggles, Isn't he a lark! Blaine seized her
arm and marched her out of the office.

So they drove into Germany, all of them silent and subdued.

They found lodgings in the first roadside inn, and contrary to her usual
custom, Centaine accepted them without first inspecting the beds, the
plumbing and the kitchens.  After dinner nobody wanted to play cards or
explore the village and they were in bed before ten o'clock.

However, by breakfast time they had recovered their high spirits, and
Mathilda Janine had them laughing with a poem she had composed in honour
of the extraordinary feats that her father, Shasa and David were about
to perform in the Games ahead of them.

Their good humour increased during the day's easy journey through the
beautiful German countryside, the villages and hilltop castles right out
of the pages of Hans Andersen fairy tales, the forests of pine trees in
dark contrast to the open meadows and the tumbling rivers crossed by
arched bridges of stone.  Along the way they saw groups of young people
in national dress, the boys in lederhosen and feathered loden hats, the
girls in dirndls, who waved and called greetings as the two big motor
cars sped past.

They lunched in an inn full of people and music and laughter, on a
haunch of wild boar with roast potatoes and apples and drank a Moselle
with the taste of the grape and sunshine in its pale greenish depths.

Everybody is so happy and prosperous-looking, Shasa remarked as he
glanced around the crowded room.

The only country in the world with no unemployment and no poor, Centaine
agreed, but Blaine tasted his wine and said nothing.

That afternoon they entered the northern plain on the approach to
Berlin, and Shasa, who was leading, swung the Daimler off onto the verge
so suddenly that David grabbed for the dashboard and the girls in the
back squeaked with alarm.

Shasa jumped out, leaving the engine still running, shouting 'David!
David!  just look at them, aren't they the most beautiful things you
have ever seen.  The others piled out beside him and stared up at the
sky, while Blaine pulled the Bentley in behind the Daimler and he and
Centaine climbed out to join them, shading their eyes against the
slanting sun.

There was an airfield adjoining the highway.  The hangar buildings were
painted silver and the windsock waved its long white arm in the small
breeze.  A stick of three fighter aircraft turned out of the sun, coming
around in formation to line up for the strip.  They were sleek as
sharks, their bellies and lower wings painted sky blue, their upper
surfaces speckled with camouflage and the boss of their propellers
bright yellow.

What are they?  Blaine called across to the two young pilots, and they
answered as one.  109S., Messerschmitts.  The machine-gun snouts
bristled from the leading edges of the wings, and the eyes of the cannon
peered malevolently from the centre of the spinning propeller bosses.

What I'd give to fly one of those!  An arm And a leg And my hope of
salvation!  The three fighters changed formation into line astern and
descended towards the airfield.

They say that they can do 350 mph, straight and level- Oh sweet!  Oh
sweet!  Look at them fly!  The girls were infected by their excitement,
and they clapped and laughed, as the war machines passed low over their
heads and touched down on the airstrip only a few hundred yards beyond.

It would be worth going to war, just to get a shot at flying something
like that, Shasa exulted, and Blaine turned back to the Bentley to hide
his sudden anger at the remark.

Centaine slid into the seat beside him and they drove in silence for
five minutes before she said: He's so young and foolish sometimes - I'm
sorry, Blaine, I know how he upset you.  He sighed.  We were the same.
We called it "a great game" and thought it was going to be the glory of
a lifetime that would make us men and heroes.  Nobody told us about the
ripped guts and the terror and how dead men smell on the fifth day in
the sun.  It won't happen again, Centaine said, fiercely.

Please don't let it happen again!  In her mind's eye she saw once again
the burning aircraft, with the body of the man she loved, blackening and
twisting and crisping; then the face was no longer Michael's but that of
his only son, and Shasa's beautiful face burst open like a sausage held
too close to the flames and the sweet young life juices burst from it.

.Please stop the car, Blaine, she whispered.  I think I am going to be
ill.  With hard driving they could have reached Berlin that night, but
in one of the smaller towns that they were passing through the streets
were decorated for some sort of celebration, and Centaine asked and was
told that it was the festival of the local patron saint.

Oh Blaine, let's stay over, she cried, and they joined in the festival.

That afternoon there was a procession.  An effigy of the saint was
paraded through the narrow cobbled streets, and a band followed it, with
angelic little blond girls in national dress, and small boys in uniform.

Those are the Hitler Youth, Blaine explained.  Something like old
Baden-Powells Boy Scouts, but with a much stronger emphasis on German
national aspirations and patriotism.  After the parade there was
torchlit dancing in the town square, and barrows serving foaming
tankards of beer or glasses of Sekt, the German equivalent of champagne,
and serving-girls with lace aprons and cheeks like ripe apples carrying
over owing platters of rich food, pigs trotters and veal, smoked
mackerel and cheeses.

They found a table at the corner of the square, and the revellers at the
neighbouring tables called greetings and merry banter to them; and they
drank beer and danced and beat time to the oom-pa-pa band with their
beer mugs.

Then quite abruptly the atmosphere changed.  The laughter around them
became brittle and forced, and there was a wariness in the faces and
eyes of revellers at the adjacent tables; the band began to play too
loudly and the dancers became feverish in their exertions.

Four men had entered the square.  They wore brown uniforms with
cross-straps over the chest and the ubiquitous swastika arm-bands. Their
brown cloth caps with rounded peaks were pulled low and their leather
chin straps were down.  Each of them carried a small wooden collection
box with a slot in the lid and they spread out and went to each of the
tables.

Everybody made a donation, but as they pushed their coins into the slot
of the box, they avoided looking at the brown-uniformed collectors.

Their laughter was forced and nervous, and they looked into their
tankards or at their own hands until the collectors had passed on to the
next table, when they exchanged relieved glances.

Who are these people?  Centaine asked innocently, making no attempt to
hide her interest.

They are the SA, Blaine replied.  Storm troopers, the bully boys of the
National Socialist Party.  Look at that one.  The trooper he had chosen
had the bland heavy face of a peasant, dull and brutal.  Is it not
remarkable that there are always people to do this type of work, the
need finds the man.  Let us pray that his is not the face of the new
Germany.  The storm trooper had noticed their unconcealed interest and
he came directly to their table with that menacing deliberate swagger.

Papers!  he said.

He wants our papers, Tara translated, and Blaine handed over his
passport.

Ah!  Foreign tourists.  The storm trooper's manner changed.  He smiled
ingratiatingly and handed back Blaine's passport with a few pleasant
words.

He says, welcome to the paradise of National Socialist Germany, Tara
translated, and Blaine nodded.

He says, you will see how the German people are now happy and proud, and
something else that I didn't catch.  Tell him we hope that they will
always be happy and proud.  The trooper beamed and clicked the heels of
his jackboots as he sprang to attention.

Heil Hitler!  He gave the Nazi salute, and Mathilda Janine dissolved
into helpless giggles.

I can't help it, she gasped as Blaine gave her a sharp look and a shake
of the head.  It just slays me when they do that., The storm troopers
left the square, and they could feel the tension ease; the band
slackened its frenetic beat and the dancers slowed down.  People looked
directly at one another and smiled naturally.

That night Centaine pulled the fat goose-down duvet up around her ears
and snuggled into the curve of Blaine's arm.

Have you noticed, she asked, how the people here seemed caught between
feverish laughter and nervous tears?  Blaine was silent for a while and
then he grunted, There is a smell in the air that troubles me, it seems
to me that it is the stench of some deadly plague, and he shuddered
slightly and drew her closer to him.

With the Daimler leading, they streamed down the wide white autobahn
into the suburbs of the German capital.

So much water, so many canals and so many trees.  The city's built on a
series of canals, Tara explained.

Rivers trapped between the old terminal moraines that the east to west,
How is it you always know everything?  Shasa interrupted her, a touch of
real exasperation under his teasing tone.

Unlike some I could name, I am actually literate, you know, she flashed
back, and David winced theatrically.

Ouch, that hurt, and it wasn't even aimed at me.  Very well, little Miss
Know-it-all, Shasa challenged.  If you are so clever, what does that
sign say?  He pointed ahead to a large white signboard beside the
autobahn.

The lettering was in black, and Tara read it aloud.

It says: "Jews!  Keep straight on!  This road will take you back to
Jerusalem, where you belong!" As she realized what she had said, she
flushed with embarrassment and leaned forward to touch David's shoulder
over the back of his seat.

Oh David, I'm so sorry.  I should never have uttered such rot! David sat
straight, staring ahead through the windscreen, and then after a few
seconds he gave a thin little smile.

Welcome to Berlin, he whispered.  The centre of Aryan civilization.
Welcome to Berlin!  Welcome to Berlin!  The train that had brought them
across half of Europe slid into the station, clouds of steam hissing
from the vacuum brakes and the cries of greeting almost drowned by the
beat of the band playing a rousing martial air.

Welcome to Berlin!  The waiting crowd surged forward at the moment their
coach came to a standstill, and Manfred De La Rey stepped down from the
balcony to be surrounded by well-wishers, smiling happy faces and
friendly handclasps, laughing girls and wreaths of flowers, shouted
questions and popping flash bulbs.

The other athletes, all dressed like him in green blazers with gold
piping, white slacks and shoes and Panama hats, were also surrounded and
mobbed and it was some minutes before a loud voice rose above the
hubbub.

Attention, please!  May I have your attention.  The band beat out a
ruffle of drums while a tall man in a dark uniform and steelrimmed
spectacles stepped forward.

First of all let me offer you the warm greetings of the Fahrer and the
German people, and we welcome you to these the eleventh Olympic Games of
the modern era.  We know that you will represent the spirit and courage
of the South African nation, and we wish you all success and many, many
medals.  Amidst clapping and laughing, the speaker held up his hands.
There are motor vehicles waiting to take you to your quarters in the
Olympic village, where you will find all preparations have been made to
make your stay with us both memorable and enjoyable. Now it is my
pleasant duty to introduce the young lady who will be your guide and
your interpreter over the next few weeks.  He beckoned to somebody in
the crowd, and a young woman stepped out into the space beside him and
turned to face the band of athletes.  There was a collective sigh and
hum of appreciation.

This is Heidi Kramer.  She was tall and strong, but unmistakably
feminine, with hips and bosom like an hour-glass, yet touched with a
dancer's grace and a gymnast's poise.  Her hair was the colour of the
Kalahari dawn, Manfred thought, and her teeth when she smiled were
perfect, their edges minutely serrated and translucent as fine bone
china, but her eyes were beyond description, bluer and clearer than the
high African sky at noon, and he knew without any hesitation that she
was the most magnificent woman he had ever seen.  At the thought he made
a silent guilty apology to Sarah, but compared to this German Valkyrie,
Sarah was a sweet little tabby cat beside a female leopard in her prime.

Now Heidi will arrange for your baggage to be collected and will get you
all seated in the limousines.  From now on if there is anything you
need, ask Heidi!  She is your big sister and your stepmother.  They
laughed and whistled and cheered and Heidi, smiling and charming but
quick and efficient, took over.  Within minutes their baggage had been
whisked away by a band of uniformed porters and she led them down the
long glassdomed platform to the magnificent entrance portals of the
railway station where a line of black Mercedes limousines was waiting
for them.

Manfred, Uncle Tromp and Roelf Stander climbed into the back seat of one
of them, and the driver was just about to pull away when Heidi waved to
him and came running back along the kerb.  She wore high heels and they
threw tension on her calf muscles, emphasizing their lovely lines and
the fine delicacy of her ankles.  Neither Sarah nor any of the girls
Manfred knew at home wore high heels.

Heidi opened the front passenger door and stuck her head into the
Mercedes.  You gentlemen will object if I ride with you, yes?  she asked
with that radiant smile, and they all protested vigorously, even Uncle
Tromp joining in.

No!  No!  Please come in.  She slipped into the seat beside the driver,
slammed the door, and immediately wriggled round so that she was facing
them, with her arms folded along the back of her seat.

I am so excited to meet you, she told them in her accented English.  I
have read so much about Africa, the animals and the Zulus, and one day I
will travel there.  You must promise to tell me all about your beautiful
country, and I will tell you all about my beautiful Germany.  They
agreed enthusiastically, and she looked directly at Uncle Tromp.

Now, let me guess.  You will be the Reverend Tromp Bierman, the team
boxing coach?  she asked, and Uncle Tromp beamed.

How clever of you.  I have seen your photograph, she admitted. 'How
could I forget such a magnificent beard?  Uncle Tromp looked highly
gratified.  But you must tell me who the others are.  This is Roelf
Stander, our heavyweight boxer, Uncle Tromp introduced them. 'And this
is Manfred De La Rey, our light heavyweight.  Manfred was certain that
she reacted to his name, a lift to one corner of her mouth and slight
narrowing of the eyes; then she was smiling again.  We will all be good
friends, she said, and Manfred replied in German.

My people, the Afrikaners, have always been the loyal friends of the
German people.  Oh, your German is perfect, she exclaimed with delight
in the same language.  Where did you learn to speak like a true German?
My paternal grandmother and my mother were both pureblooded Germans.
Then you will find much to interest you in our country.  She switched
back to English and began to lecture, pointing out the sights of the
city as the line of black Mercedes, Olympic pennants fluttering on the
bonnets, sped through the streets.

This is the famous Unter den Linden, the street we Berliners love so
dearly.  It was broad and magnificent with linden trees growing down the
promenade that divided the double carriageway.  The street is a mile
long.  That is the royal palace behind us, and there ahead of us is the
Brandenburg Tor.  The tall colonnades of the monument were decked with
enormous banners that hung from the quadriga charioteer group of figures
on the summit to the ground far below; the crimson and black swastika
flanked by the multi-coloured rings of the Olympic symbol billowed and
heaved in the light breeze.

That is the state opera house, Heidi turned to point through the side
window.  It was built in 1741 She was entertaining and informative.

See how the people of Berlin welcome you, she cried, with that gay
brittle enthusiasm which seemed to characterize all the citizens of
National Socialist Germany.  Look!

Look!  Berlin was a city of flags and banners.  From every public
building, department store, apartment block and private dwelling the
flags fluttered and waved, swastikas and the Olympic rings, thousands
upon tens of thousands.

When they came at last to the apartment block in the Olympic village
that had been set aside for them, an honour guard of the Hitler Youth
with burning torches waited to welcome them, and another band drawn up
on the sidewalk broke into The Voice of South Africa', the national
anthem.

Inside the building Heidi issued each of them with a booklet filled with
coloured coupons by which every last detail of their personal
arrangements were organized, from their room and the bed on which they
would sleep, and the buses that would carry them to and from the Olympic
complex, to the chanong rooms and the numbers of the lockers that they
had been allocated at the stadium.

Here in this house you will have your own chef and dining-hall. Food
will be prepared to your own preference, with due regard to any special
diets or tastes.  There is a doctor and a dentist available at any hour.
Dry-cleaning and laundry, radios and telephones, a private masseur for
the team, a secretary with a typewriter, It had all been arranged, and
they were amazed by the precise, meticulous planning.

Please find your rooms, your luggage is already there waiting for you.
Unpack and relax.  Tomorrow morning I will take you on the bus for a
tour of the Reichssportfeld, the Olympic complex.  It is ten miles from
here, so we will leave immediately after breakfast at eight-thirty am.
In the meantime, if there is anything, anything at all, that you want,
you have only to ask me.  I know what I'd like to ask her for, one of
the weightlifters whispered, rolling his eyes, and Manfred clenched his
fists with anger at the impertinence, even though Heidi had not heard
it.

Until tomorrow, she called gaily, and went through to the kitchens to
talk to the chef.

Now that is what I call a woman Uncle Tromp growled.

I give thanks that I am a man of the cloth, old and happily married, and
beyond all the temptations of Eve., There were cries of mock
commiserations for Uncle Tromp was by this time everybody's uncle.

All right!  He was suddenly stern.

Running shoes, all you lazy young dogs.  A quick ten miles before
supper, please!  Heidi was waiting for them when they came down to
breakfast, gay and bright and smiling, answering their questions,
distributing mail from home, sorting out a dozen small problems quickly
and without fuss, and then when they had eaten, taking them off in a
group to the bus station.

Most of the athletes from the other countries were in residence, and the
village was bustling and full of tense excitement, men and women in
sporting attire running through the streets, calling to each other in a
multiplicity of tongues, their superb physical condition showing in
their bright young faces and in every movement that they made.

When they came to the stadium, the size of it awed them all.  A huge
complex of halls, gymnasiums and covered swirnMing-pools surrounded the
oval track and field theatre.  The banks of seating seemed to reach away
for ever, and the Olympic altar at the far end with the unlit tripod
torch gave a sense of religious solemnity to this temple devoted to the
worship of the human body.

It took the morning for them to see it all, and they had a hundred
questions between them.  Heidi answered them all, but more than once
Manfred found her walking beside him, and when they spoke German
together it gave them a sense of intimacy, even in the crowd.  it was
not his imagination alone, for Roelf had noticed the special attention
Manfred was receiving.

How are you enjoying your German lessons?  he asked innocently at lunch,
and when Manfred snarled at him he grinned unrepentantly.

Their hosts had arranged sparring partners from the local boxing clubs,
and over the days that followed, Uncle Tromp drove them hard towards the
pinnacle of their training.

Manfred tore at his opponents, slamming punches into the thick padding
that covered their midriffs and heads, so that even with that protection
none of them lasted more than a round or two before calling for quarter;
and when Manfred went back to his corner and looked around it was
usually to find Heidi Kramer watching from somewhere near at hand, a
flush on her flawless neck, a strange intent look in those impossibly
blue eyes, her lips slightly parted and the tip of her pink tongue held
between sharp white teeth.

However, it was only after four days of training that he found himself
alone with her.  He had finished a hard session in the gymnasium and
after showering and changing into grey slacks and a Varsity sweater, he
went out through the front entrance of the stadium.

He had almost reached the bus station when she called his name and ran
to catch up with him.

I am also going back to the village.  I have to talk to the chef - may I
ride the bus with you?  She must have been waiting for him and he felt
flattered and a little nervous.

She had a free, hip-swinging walk, and her hair swayed around her head
like a sheet of golden silk when she looked up at him as they walked
down to the bus station.

I have been watching the boxers from the other countries, she said,
especially the light heavyweights, and I have also been watching you.
Yes.  He frowned to cover his embarrassment.  I saw you., You have
nobody to fear, except the American.  Cyrus Lomax, he nodded. 'Yes, Ring
Magazine rates him the best amateur light heavyweight in the world.
Uncle Tromp has been watching him also.  He agrees that he is very good.
Very strong, and being a nigger, he will have a skull like solid ivory.
He is the only one you will have to beat for the gold, she agreed.  The
gold, the sound of it on her lips had a music that quickened his pulse.
And I will be there cheering for you., Thank you, Heidi.  They boarded
the bus, and when the men in the other seats glanced at Heidi with
admiration, he felt proud to have her at his side.

My uncle is a great follower of boxing.  He thinks as I do, that you
have a good chance of beating the American negro.

He would like very much to meet you.  It is kind of your uncle. 'He is
having a small reception at his home this evening.

He asks me to invite you.  You know that is not possible, he shook his
head.  My training schedule, My uncle is an important and very
influential man,, she insisted, holding her head on one side and smiling
appealingly up at him.  it will be very early.  I promise you will be
home before nine o'clock.  She saw him hesitate and went on, It will
make my uncle, and me, very happy., I have an uncle also, Uncle Tromp,
If I get your Uncle Tromp's permission, will you promise to come?  Heidi
was waiting in the Mercedes at the front door of their house in the
village at seven o'clock, as she had arranged. The driver held the rear
door open for him and Manfred slid onto the leather seat beside her.

She smiled at him.  You look very handsome, Manfred., She had plaited
her blond hair into two thick gleaming ropes and piled them on top of
her head.  Her shoulders and the upper slopes of her stately bosom were
bare and snowy perfection.  Her blue taffeta cocktail dress matched the
colour of her eyes perfectly.

You are beautiful, he said with wonder in his tone.  He had never paid a
compliment to a woman before, but this was a mere statement of fact. She
lowered her eyes, a touchingly modest gesture from someone who must be
accustomed to male adulation.

To the Rupertstrasse, she ordered the driver.

They drove slowly down the Kurfarstendamin, watching the throngs of
merry-makers on the brightly lit sidewalks, then the Mercedes
accelerated as they entered the quieter streets of the westerly section
of the Granewald district.

This was the millionaires, village on the western outskirts of the
sprawling city, and Manfred relaxed and settled back against the leather
upholstery and turned to the lovely woman beside him.  She was talking
seriously, asking him questions about himself and his family, and about
his country.  Quickly he realized that she had a much better knowledge
of South Africa than he could have expected, and he wondered how she had
acquired it.

She knew the history of war and conflict and rebellion, the struggle of
his people against the barbarous black tribes, and then the subjugation
of the Afrikaner by the British, and the terrible threats to their
existence as a people.

The English, she said, and there was a knife-edge of bitterness in her
tone.  They are everywhere, bringing war and suffering with them,
Africa, India, my own Germany.  We too have been oppressed and
persecuted.  if it were not for our beloved Fithrer, we should still be
staggering under the yoke of the Jew and the English.  Yes, he is a
great man, your Fahrer, Manfred agreed and then he quoted: What we must
fight for is to safeguard the existence and reproduction of our race and
our people, the sustenance of our children and the purity of our blood,
the freedom and independence of the fatherland, so that our people may
mature for the fulfilment of the mission allotted it by the creator of
the universe.  Wein Kampf, she exclaimed.  You can quote the words of
the Fuhrer!  They had passed a signing ant milestone in their
relationship, Manfred realized.

With those words he has captured everything that I feel and believe, he
said.  He is a great man, head of a great nation.  The house in the
Rupertstrasse was set back from the road in large gardens on the bank of
one of the beautiful Havel Lakes.  There were a dozen chauffeured
limousines parked

in the driveway, most of them with swastika pennants on their bonnets
and uniformed chauffeurs waiting behind the wheels.  All the windows of
the large house were lit and there was the sound of music and voices and
laughter as their own chauffeur let them out of the Mercedes under the
portico.

Manfred offered Heidi his arm and they went in through the open front
doors, crossed a lobby of black and white chequered marble slabs and
panelled walls decorated with a forest of stag antlers, and paused in
the doorway of the large reception room beyond.  The room was already
filled with guests.  Most of the men were in dashing uniforms that
glittered with the insignia of rank and regiment, while the women were
elegant in silks and velvets, with shoulders bare and hair bobbed in the
latest style.

The laughter and conversation subsided as they turned to examine the
newcomers, and there were interested and calculating appraisals, for
Manfred and Heidi made a strikingly handsome couple.  Then the
conversation picked up again.

There is Uncle Sigmund, Heidi exclaimed, and drew Manfred into the room
towards the tall uniformed figure who came to meet them.

Heidi, my dear.  He stooped over Heidi's hand as he kissed it. 'You grow
more beautiful each time I see you., Manfred, this is my uncle, Colonel
Sigmund Boldt.  Uncle Sigmund, may I present Herr Manfred De La Rey, the
South African boxer.  Colonel Boldt shook hands with Manfred.  He had
pure white hair scraped severely back from the thin face of an academic,
with good bone structure and a narrow aristocratic nose.

Heidi tells me that you are of German extraction?  He wore a black
uniform with silver death's head insignia on the lapels; and one eyelid
drooped, while the eye itself watered uncontrollably and he dabbed at it
with the fine linen handkerchief he held in his right hand.

That is true, Colonel.  I have very strong ties to your country, Manfred
replied.

Ah, you speak excellent German.  The colonel took his arm. 'There are
many people here this evening who will want to meet you, but first tell
me, what do you think of the black American boxer, Cyrus Lomax?  And
what will be your tactics when you meet him?  With discreet social
grace, either Heidi or Colonel Boldt were always on hand to steer him
from one group of guests to the next, and the wine waiter brought him a
glass of mineral water when he refused the champagne that was offered.

However, they left him longer than usual with one guest whom Heidi had
introduced as General Zoller, a tall Prussian officer in field grey
uniform with an iron cross at the throat who, despite a rather
undistinguished and forgettable face with pale sickly features, proved
to have a sharp incisive intelligence.  He questioned Manfred minutely
on the politics and conditions in South Africa, particularly as to the
feelings of the average Afrikaner towards their ties to Great Britain
and the Empire.

While they spoke, General Zoller chain-smoked a series of thin
cigarettes wrapped in yellow paper with a strong herbal odour, and every
now and again he wheezed with asthma.  Manfred quickly found that he was
sympathetic and had an encyclopaedic grasp of African affairs; the time
passed very quickly before Heidi came across the room and touched his
arm.

Excuse me, General Zoller, but I have promised the boxing coach that I
will have his star back before nine o'clock.  I have enjoyed meeting
you, young man.  The general shook Manfred's hand.  Our countries should
be good friends.  Manfred assured him, I will do all in my power to
bring that about., Good luck for the Games, Herr de La Rey.  in the
Mercedes again Heidi remarked, My uncle liked you very much, and so did
many of his friends, General Zoller for one.  I enjoyed the evening.  Do
you like music, Manfred?  He was a little surprised by the question.  I
enjoy some music, but I am no expert. 'Wagner?  Yes, I like Wagner very
much.  Uncle Sigmund has given me two tickets to the Berlin Philharmonic
Orchestra for next Friday.  The young conductor Herbert von Karajan is
performing a programme of Wagner.  I know you will be fighting your
first bout that afternoon, but afterwards we could celebrate.  She
hesitated, and then she went on quickly, Forgive me, you think me
forward, but I assure you No, no. I would be greatly honoured to
accompany you whether I win or lose. 'You will win, she said simply.  I
know you will., She dropped him in front of the team house, and waited
until he had gone in before she ordered the driver, Back to the
Rupertstrasse.  When she got back to the colonel's house most of the
other guests were leaving.  She waited quietly until he came back from
seeing the last of them away and, with an inchnation of his silver hair,
ordered her to follow him.  His treatment of her had altered completely,
it was now brusque and superior.

He crossed to the unobtrusive oak door at the far end of the room and
went in ahead of her.  Heidi entered and closed the door behind her
softly, then drew herself to attention and stood waiting.  Colonel Boldt
left her standing while he poured two balloon glasses of cognac and took
one to General Zoller where he sat in the wingbacked chair beside the
log fire in the stone fireplace, puffing at one of his herbal
cigarettes, with an open file on his knees.

So, FrIulein, Colonel Boldt sank into the leather chair and waved Heidi
towards the couch, sit down.  You may relax in your "uncle's" house. She
smiled politely but sat stiff-backed on the edge of the couch and
Colonel Boldt turned back to the general.

May I ask the general's opinion of the subject?  and General Zoller
looked up from the file.

There seems to be a grey area surrounding the subject's mother. Is it
confirmed that his mother was a German, as he claims?  I am afraid we do
not have confirmation on that.  We can establish no proof of his
mother's nationality, although I have made exhaustive enquiries amongst
our people in South West Africa.  The general belief is that she died at
childbirth in the African wilderness.  However, on his father's side
there is definite documented proof that his grandmother was German and
that his father fought most valiantly for the Kaiser's army, in Africa.
Yes, I see that, the General said testily, and looked up at Heidi.  What
sentiments has he expressed to you, Fraulein?  He is very proud of his
German blood, and he looks upon himself as the natural ally of the
German people.  He is a great admirer of the Fuhrer and can quote at
length from Mein Kampf.  The general coughed and wheezed and lit another
cigarette with a taper from the fire before turning all his attention
back to the red file with the eagle and swastika emblem on the front
cover.  The others waited quietly for almost ten minutes before he
looked up at Heidi.

What relationship have you established with the subject, Fraulein?  On
Colonel Boldt's orders, I have made myself agreeable and friendly
towards him.  I have in small ways conveyed my interest as a woman
towards him.  I have shown him that I am knowledgeable and interested in
the art of boxing, and that I know a great deal about the problems of
his fatherland.  Frulein Kramer is one of my best operatives, Colonel
Boldt explained.  She has been given a thorough grounding in the history
of South Africa and the sport of boxing by our department.  The general
nodded.  Proceed, Friulein, he ordered, and Heidi went on.

I have conveyed to him my sympathy for his people's political
aspirations and made it clear that I am his friend, with the possibility
of more than that., There has been no sexual intimacy between your No,
my General.  I judge that the subject would be offended if I were to
proceed too rapidly.  As we know from his file, he comes from a strict
Calvinist religious background.  Besides which, I have not received
orders from Colonel Boldt to initiate sexual advances.  Good, the
general nodded.  This is a matter of major importance.  The Fuhrer
himself is aware of our operation.

He considers, as I do, that the southern tip of Africa has enormous
tactical and strategic importance in our plans for global expansion.  It
guards the sea routes to India and the East, and in the event that the
Suez Canal is denied to our shipping, it is the only route available. In
addition, it is a treasure house of raw material vital to our military
preparations, chrome, diamonds, the platinum group minerals.

With this in mind, and after my meeting with the subject, I am of the
firm belief that we must proceed.  Therefore, the operation now has full
departmental sanction and a "red" ratings Very good, my General., 'The
code name for the operation will be "White Sword" Das Weisse Schwart!

Jawohl, my General.  Fraulein Kramer, you are now assigned exclusively
to this operation.  You will, at the first opportunity, initiate sexual
intimacy with the subject in such a way as not to alarm nor offend him,
but rather to strengthen our hold over his allegiance. 'Very well, my
General.  In due course it may be necessary for you to enter into a form
of marriage with the subject.  Is there any reason why you could not do
so, if required?  Heidi did not hesitate.  None, my General.  You can
rely on my duty and loyalty entirely.  I will do whatever is required of
me.  Very good, Frulein.  General Zoller coughed and hunted noisily for
breath, and his voice was still rough as he went on, Now, Colonel, it
will suit our purpose if the subject is winner of a gold medal at these
Games.  It will give him a a great deal of prestige in his home country,
apart from the ideological aspect of a white Aryan triumphing over a
person of an inferior black race. 'I understand, my General.  There is
not a serious German contender for the light heavyweight title, is
there?  No, my General, the subject is the only serious white contender.
We can make certain that all matches which the subject fights are
refereed and judged by members of the Party who are under the control of
our department.

Naturally, we cannot effect the decision in the case of a knock-out,
but- Naturally, Boldt, but you will do all in your power, and Frdulein
Kramer will report daily to Colonel Boldt on her progress with the
subject.  Both the Courtney and Malcomess clans had descended upon the
luxurious Bristol Hotel rather than the Olympic village, though David
Abrahams had bowbd to the dictates of the athletics coach and moved into
the apartment house with his team mates, so that Shasa saw little of him
during the days of hard training leading up to the opening of the Games.

Mathilda Janine prevailed on Tara to accompany her to most of the field
athletic training, in return for equal timeshares of her company at the
polo fields, so the two girls spent most of their time dashing from the
vast Olympic complex across Berlin to the equestrian centre at high
speed, the only rate of progress with which Tara seemed able to conduct
her father's green Bentley.

The brief lay-off from training, combined with the imminence of the
Games themselves, seemed to have sharpened David's running rather than
harmed it.  He returned some excellent times during those five days and
courageously resisted Mathilda Janine's suggestion that he should sneak
out for just an hour or two in the evenings.

You are in with a chance, Davie, his coach told him, checking the
stopwatch after his last run before the official opening ceremony.

Just concentrate it all now and you'll have a bit of tin to take home
with you.  Both Shasa and Blaine were delighted with the ponies that
their German hosts had provided.  Like everything else in the equestrian
centre, the grooms, stabling and equipment were all without fault, and
under Blaine's iron control, the team settled down to concentrated
practice and were soon once more a cohesive phalanx of horsemen.

Between their own long sessions on the practice field, they watched and
judged the other teams whom they would have to meet.  The Americans,
expense not considered, had brought their own mounts across the
Atlantic.  The Argentinians had gone one better and brought their grooms
as well, in flat-brimmed gaucho hats and leather breeches decorated with
silver studs.

Those are the two to beat, Blaine warned them.  But the Germans are
surprisingly good, and the Brits, as always, will be slogging away at
it.  We can flatten any of them, Shasa gave the team the benefit of his
vast experience, with a little luck.  Tara was the only one who took the
boast seriously, as from the stand she watched him tear down the side
field, sitting tall in the saddle, a beautiful young centaur, lean and
lithe, white teeth flashing against the dark tan of his face.

He's so big-headed and cock-sure, she lamented.  If only I could just
ignore him.  If only life wasn't just so flat when he's not around.

By nine o'clock on the morning of 1 August 1936, the vast

Olympic stadium, the largest in the world, was packed with over one
hundred thousand human beings.

The turf of the central isle had been groomed into an emerald velvet
sheet, and ruled with the stark white lanes and circles that marked out
the venue for the field events.

The running track around the periphery was of brick-red cinders. High
above it rose the Tribune of Honour', the reviewing stand for the
traditional march-past of the athletes.  At the far end of the stadium
was the Olympic altar with its tripod torch still cold.

Outside the entrance to the stadium stretched the Maifeld, its open
acres of space containing the high bell tower with the legend: 'Ich rufe
die Jugend der Welt, I summon the youth of the world.  And the massed
echelons of athletes were drawn up to face down the long boulevard of
the Kaiserdamm, renamed for the solemn occasion the Via Triumphalis.
High above the field floated the giant airship, the Hindenburg, towing
behind it the banner of the Olympics, the five great linked circles.

From afar a faint susurration rose on the cool still morning air. Slowly
it grew louder, closer.  A long procession of open four-door Mercedes
tourers was approaching down the Via Triumphalis, chromework gleaming
like mirrors, passing between the closed ranks of fifty thousand
brown-uniformed storm troopers who lined both sides of the way, holding
back a dense throng of humanity, ten and twenty deep, who roared with
adulation as the leading vehicle passed them and threw their right arms
high in the Nazi salute.

The cavalcade drew to a halt before the legion of athletes and from the
leading Mercedes Adolf Hitler stepped down.

He wore the plain brown shirt, breeches and jackboots of a storm
trooper.  Rather than rending him inconspicuous, this sombre unadorned
dress seemed rather to distinguish him in the mass of brilliant
uniforms, gold lace, bearskins and stars and ribbons that followed him
between the ranks of athletes towards the marathon gate of the stadium.

So that is the wild man, Blaine Malcomess thought as Hitler strolled by,
not five paces from where he stood.  He was precisely as Blaine had seen
him portrayed a thousand times, the dark hair combed forward, the small
square mustache.  But Blaine was unprepared for the intense Messianic
gaze that rested upon him for a fleeting part of a second, then passed
on.  He found that the hair on his forearms had come erect and prickled
electrically, for he had just looked into the eyes of an Old Testament
prophet, or a madman.

Following close behind Adolf Hitler were all his favourites: Goebbels
wore a light summer suit, but Goering was portly and resplendent in the
sky-blue full-dress of a Luftwaffe marshal and he saluted the athletes
casually with his gold baton as he went by.  At that moment the great
bronze bell high above the Maifeld began to toll, summoning the youth of
the world to assembly.

Hitler and his entourage passed out of sight, entering the tunnel
beneath the stands, and a few minutes later a great fanfare of trumpets,
magnified a hundred times by the banks of loudspeakers, crashed over the
field and a massed choir burst into Deutschland fiber alles.  The ranks
of athletes began to move off, wheeling into their positions for the
entry parade.

As they emerged from the gloom of the tunnel into the sunlit arena,
Shasa exchanged a glance with David marching beside him.  They grinned
at each other in shared excitement as the great waves of sound,
amplified music from the bands and the choir singing the Olympic hymn
and the cheering of one hundred thousand spectators, poured over them.
Then they looked ahead, chins up, arms swinging, and stepped out to the
grandeur of Richard Strauss's music.

In the rank ahead of Shasa, Manfred De La Rey stepped out as boldly, but
his eyes were focused on the brown-clad figure far ahead in the front
rank of the Tribune of Honour and surrounded by princes and kings.  As
they came level, he wanted to fling up his right arm and shout, Heil
Hitler!  but he had to restrain himself.  After lengthy discussion and
argument, the counsel of Blaine Malcomess and the other English speakers
in the team had prevailed.  Instead of the German salute the team
members merely snapped their heads around in the eyes right salute as
they came level.  A low whistle and stamp of disapproval from the
largely German spectators followed them. Manfred's eyes burned with
tears of shame at the insult he had been forced to offer the great man
on the high dais.

His anger stayed with him during the rest of the amazing festivities
that followed: the lighting of the Olympic torch and the official speech
of opening by the Fiffirer, the sky filled with the white wings of fifty
thousand doves released together, the flags of the nations raised
simultaneously around the rim of the stadium, the displays of swaying
gymnasts and dancers, the searchlights and the fireworks and the music
and the fly-past by squadrons of Marshal Goering's Luftwaffe that filled
and darkened the sky with their thunder.

Blaine and Centaine dined alone that evening in her suite at the Bristol
and both of them were suffering from an anticlimactic weariness after
the day's excitements.

What a show they put on for the world!  Centaine remarked.  I don't
think any of us expected this.  We should have, Blaine replied, 'after
their experience in arranging the Nuremberg rallies, the Nazis are the
grand masters of pageantry.  Not even the ancient Romans developed the
seductive appeal of public spectacle to this refinement. 'I loved it,
Centaine agreed.

it was pagan and idolatrous, and blatant propaganda Herr Hitler selling
Nazi Germany and his new race of supermen to the world.  But, yes, I
have to agree with you, it was unfortunately jolly good fun, with an
ominous touch of menace and evil to it that made it even more enjoyable.
Blaine, you are a hard-nosed old cynic.  My only real virtue, he
conceded, and then changed the subject.  They have posted the draw for
the first-round matches.  We are fortunate not to have drawn either the
Argentinians or the Yanks.  They had drawn the Australians, and their
hopes of an easy win were dashed almost immediately for the Aussies
galloped in like charging cavalry from the first whistle, driving both
Blaine and Shasa back in desperate defence, and they kept up that
unrelenting attack throughout the first three hard-ridden chukkas, never
allowing Blaine's team to gather themselves.

Shasa kept the curb on his own instincts, which were to ride and shine
alone, and placed himself completely under the control of his captain,
responding instantly to Blaine's calls to cut left or cover the fall or
break back', drawing from Blaine the only thing which he lacked himself,
experience.  Now in these desperate minutes the bond of understanding
and trust between then, which had taken so long to forge, was tested
almost to breaking point, but in the end it held and halfway through the
fourth chukka, Blaine grunted as he passed close to his young number
two.

They've shot their bolt, Shasa.  Let's see now if they can take what
they've been handing out.  Shasa took Blaine's next high cross shot at
full stretch, standing in his stirrups to pull it down out of the air,
and then to drive it far up field, drawing off the Aussie backs before
sending it back inside in a lazy dropping parabola to fall under the
nose of Blaine's racing pony.  That was the turning-point, and in the
end they rode in on lathered ponies and jumped down from the saddle to
pound each other between the shoulder blades, laughing with a triumph
touched by a shade of disbelief at their own achievement.

Triumph turned to gloom when they heard that they would meet the
Argentinians in the second round.

David Abrahams ran a disappointing race in his first heat of the 400
metre dash, coming in fourth and missing the cut.

Mathilda Janine refused dinner and went up to bed early that night, but
two days later she was bubbling and deliriously excited when David won
his heat in the 200 metres and went through to the semi-finals.

Manfred De La Rey's first opponent was the Frenchman,

Maurice Artois, unranked in his division.

Fast as a mamba, brave as a ratel, Uncle Tromp whispered to Manfred at
the gong.

Heidi Kramer was sitting beside Colonel Boldt in the fourth row, and she
shivered with unexpected excitement as she watched Manfred leave his
corner and come out into the centre.  He moved like a cat.

Up to this time it had taken much effort for her to feign an interest in
the sport.  She had found the sounds and odours and sights associated
with it all repellent, the stench of rancid sweat on canvas and leather,
the animal grunting and the slogging of padded fists into flesh, the
blood and sweat and flying spittle offended her fastidious nature.  Now
in this company of well-dressed and cultivated spectators, clad herself
in fresh silk and lace, perfumed and serene, she found the contrast of
violence and savagery before her frightening but at the same time
stirring.

Manfred De La Rey, the quiet stern young man, humourless and grave,
slightly gauche in unaccustomed clothing and ill at ease in
sophisticated company, had been transformed into a magnificent wild
beast, and the primeval ferocity he seemed to exude, the blaze of those
yellow eyes under the black brows as he slashed the Frenchman's face
into a distorted bleeding mask and then drove him down onto his knees in
the centre of the sheet of spotless white canvas, excited her perversely
so that she found she was clenching her thighs tightly together and her
groin was hotly melting and dampening the expensive crepe-de-chine skirt
under her.

That excitement persisted as she sat beside Manfred in the stalls of the
state opera house that evening while Wagner's heroic Teutonic music
filled the auditorium with thrilling sound.  She moved slightly in her
seat until her bare upper arm touched Manfred's.  She felt him start,
begin to pull away, then catch himself.  The contact between them was
gossamer-light but both of them were intensely aware of it.

Once again Colonel Brandt had placed the Mercedes at her disposal for
the evening.  The driver was waiting for them when they came down the
front steps of the opera house.

As they settled into the back seat, she saw Manfred wince slightly.

What is it?  she asked quickly.

It is nothing.  She touched his shoulder with firm strong fingers. Here,
does it hurt?  A stiffness in the muscle, it will be all right tomorrow.
Hans, take us to my apartment in the Hansa, she ordered the driver, and
Manfred glanced at her, perturbed.

Mutti has passed down to me one of her special secrets.  It is an
embrocation made with wild ferns, and truly magical., It is not
necessary, he protested.

My apartment is on the way back to the Olympic village.

It will not take long and Hans can drop you back home afterwards. She
had been uncertain as to how she would get him alone without alarming
him, but now he accepted her suggestion without further comment.  He was
silent for the rest of the drive and she could sense the tension in him,
though she made no attempt to touch him again.

Manfred was thinking of Sarah, trying to form the image of her face in
his mind but it was blurred, a sweet and insipid blur.  He wanted to
order Hans to drive directly back to the village, but he could not find
the will to do so.  He knew what they were doing was incorrect, to be
alone with a young attractive woman, and he tried to convince himself
that it was innocent, but then he remembered the touch of her arm
against him and he stiffened.

It does hurt?  she misinterpreted the movement.

Just a little, he whispered, and his voice caught.

It was always most difficult after he had fought.  For many hours after
a match he was strung up and nervously sensitive, and it was then that
his body was likely to play Satan's tricks upon him.  He could feel it
happening now, and his mortification and guilt forced hot blood up into
his face.

what would this pure clean German virgin think of him if she guessed at
that obscene and wicked tumescence?  He opened his mouth to tell her
would not go with her, but she was leaning forward in the seat.

Thank you, Hans.  Drop us here on the corner and you can wait down the
block.  She was out of the car and crossing the sidewalk, and he had no
option but to follow her.

it was half dark in the entrance lobby of the building.

I'm sorry, Manfred, I am on the top floor and there is no elevator.  The
climb allowed him to regain control of himself, and she let him into a
small one-roomed flat.

This is my palace, she smiled apologetically.  Flats are so difficult to
find in Berlin these days.  She gestured to the bed.  Sit there,
Manfred.  She slipped off the jacket she wore over her white blouse, and
stood on tiptoe to hang it in the cupboard.  Her breasts swung forward
heavily as she lifted her pale smooth arms.

Manfred looked away.  There was a shelf of books on one wall; he saw a
set of Goethe's works and remembered how he had been his father's
favourite author.  Think of any thing, he told himself, anything but
those big pointed breasts under the thin white cloth.

She had gone through to the little bathroom and he heard running water
and the clink of glass.  Then she came bac with a small green bottle in
her hands and stood in front of him smiling.

You must take off your coat and your shirt, she said, and he could not
reply.  He had not thought of that.

That is not proper, Heidi.  She laughed softly, a throaty little sound,
and through the laughter she murmured, Don't be shy, Manfred. just think
of me as a nurse.  Gently she lifted the coat off his shoulders, helping
him out of it.  Her breasts swung forward again and almost brushed
against his face before she stepped back and hung his coat over the back
of the single chair and then, a few seconds later, folded his shirt on
top of it.  She had warmed the bottle in the basin and the lotion was
instantly soothing on his skin, her fingers cunning and strong.

,Relax, she whispered.  There, I can feel it.  It's all hard and
knotted.  Relax, let the pain just wash away.  Gently she drew his head
forward.  Lean against me, Manfred.  Yes, like that., She was standing
in front of him and she thrust her hips forward so that his forehead was
pressed against her lower torso.  Her belly was soft and warm and her
voice hypnotic, he felt waves of pleasure spreading out from the contact
of her kneading fingers.

You are so hard and strong, Manfred, so white and hard and beautiful, It
was moments before he realized what she had said, but her fingers were
stroking and caressing, and all rational thought ebbed out of his mind.
He was conscious only of the hands and the murmured endearments and
praise, then he was aware of something else, a warm musky odour wafted
up from her belly against which his face was pressed.  Though he did not
recognize it as the smell of a healthy young woman physically aroused
and ripe for love, yet his own reaction to it was instinctive and no
longer to be denied.

Heidi, his voice shook wildly.  I love you.  Forgive me, God, but I love
you so.  Yes, mein Schatz, I know, she whispered.  And I love you also.
She pushed him back gently upon the bed and standing over him began
slowly to unbutton the front of the white blouse.  As she came over him,
her big silky white breasts, tipped with ruby, were the most beautiful
things he had ever seen.

I love you, he cried so many times during that night, each time in a
different voice of wonder and awe and ecstasy, for the things she did
with him and for him, surpassed all s imaginings.

For the first day of the finals of the track and field events,

Shasa had managed to finagle team tickets for the girls, but the seats
were high in the north stand.  Mathilda Janine had borrowed Shasa's
binoculars and was anxiously scanning the great arena far below them.

I can't see him, she waited.

He's not out yet, Shasa reassured her.  They are running the hundred
metres first, I But he was as strung out as she was.  in the semifinal
heat of the 200-metre dash, David Abrahams had run second to the great
American athlete Jesse Owens, the Ebony Antelope, and so had secured his
place in the final event.

I'm so nervous I think I am going to have a fit of the vapours. Mathilda
Janine gasped without lowering the binoculars, on Shasa's other side
Tara was as agitated, but for different reasons.

It's outrageous, she said, so vehemently that Shasa turned to her
surprised.

What is?  Haven't you been listening to a word?  You know David will be
coming out at any moment.  I'm sorry,, He was drowned out by a deafening
thunder of applause and the banks of spectators rose to their feet as
the finalists in the hundred-metre dash sprang from the blocks and sped
down their lanes; as they crossed the finish line, the quality of the
sound changed, groans mixed with the ovation for the winner.

There!  Tara caught Shasa's arm.  Listen to them.  Near them in the
crowd a voice called, Another American negro wins.  And closer still,
The Americans should be ashamed to let the black animals wear their
colours.  These bigots are disgusting.  Tara glared around her, trying
to identify the speakers in the sea of faces that surrounded them and
when she failed turned back to Shasa.  The Germans are threatening to
disallow all medals won by what they call the inferior races, the blacks
and the Jews, she said in a loud voice.  They are disgusting.  Cool
down, Shasa whispered.

Don't you care?  Tara challenged him.  David is a Jew.  Of course I
care, he said quietly, glancing around in embarrassment.  But do shut
up, Tara, there's a brick., I think, Tara's voice rose in direct
response to Shasa's appeal, but Mathilda Janine screamed even more
piercingly.

There he is, there's David!  With relief Shasa spran& to his feet. There
he is, go it, Davie boy.  Run like a hairy springbok! The finalists for
the 200-metre dash had clustered at the far end of the arena and were
jogging on the spot, windmilling their arms and going through their
warm-up routines.

Isn't David just indescribable?  Mathilda Janine demanded.

think that describes him perfectly, Shasa agreed, and she punched his
arm.

You know what I mean.  Then the group of athletes spread out to their
blocks and the starter stepped forward.  once more silence descended on
the vast arena, and the runners were crouched down, frozen in a rigour
of concentration.

The pistol fired, at this distance a pop of sound, and the athletes
hurled themselves forward in a perfect line, long legs flashing, arms
pumping high, they sped away on a rising wave of sound, and the line
lost its perfection, bulged in the centre; a lean dark panther of a man
pulled out ahead and the roar of the crowd became articulate.

JesSe Owens!  repeated in a soaring chant, while the dark man flashed
over the finish line pulling a bunch of other runners behind him.

What happened?  Mathilda Janine screamed.

Jesse Owens won, Shasa shouted to make himself heard in the uproar.

I know that, but David, what happened to David?  I don't know. I
couldn't see.  It was all so close.  They waited in a fever until the
loudspeakers boomed their stentorian command.

Achtung!  Achtung!  and they heard the names in the jumble of German.

Jesse Owens, Carter Brown, David Abrahams.  Mathilda Janine shrieked.
Catch me, I'm going to faint.

David got the bronze!  She was still shrieking, and hopping up and down
on the spot, tears of wild joy running unheeded down her cheeks and
dripping off her chin, while on the green field below a thin gangling
figure in shorts and running vest climbed up onto the inferior step of
the victors pyramid and bowed his head as the ribbon with the bronze
medal dangling from it was draped around his neck.

The four of them began their celebration that evening in the salon of
Centaines suite at the Bristol.  Blaine made a short speech of
congratulation while David stood in the middle of the floor looking
bashful and self-conscious as they toasted him in champagne.  Because it
was for David, Shasa drank the whole glass of the magnificent 1929
Bollinger that Centaine provided for the occasion.

He drank another full glass of Sekt at the Caf& am Kudamm, on the corner
of the Kurfarstendamm, just down the street from the hotel and then the
four of them linked arms and set off down Berlin's notorious fun street.
All the signs of decadence that the Nazis had banned, the Coca-Cola
bottles on the sidewalk tables, and the strains of jazz from the cafe
bands, the movie posters of Clark Gable and Myma Loy, were once more in
evidence, allowed back under special dispensation for the duration of
the Olympics only.

They stopped at another cafe, and this time Shasa ordered a schnapps.

Slow down,David whispered to him, he knew that Shasa seldom drank
alcohol, and then never more than a single glass of wine or beer.

Davie my boy, it's not every day that an old mate of mine wins an
Olympic medal.  He was flushed under his tan and his eyes had a feverish
glitter.

Well, I for one refuse to carry you home, David warned.

They went on down the Ku-damm.  and Shasa had the girls in fits of
giggles at his nonsense humour.

and then, stunningly,

Ach so, meine lieblings, dis is de famousa Kranzlers coffee house, no?
We will enter and drink a leetle champagne, yes?  That's Italian, not
German,Tara pointed out.  And I think you are sloshed. 'Sloshed is a
foul word on fair lips,, Shasa told her, and marched her into the
elegant coffee shop.

Not more champagne, Shasa, David protested.

My dear boy, you don't suggest I should drink everlasting life to you in
beer, now do you?  Shasa snapped his fingers to summon the waitress and
she poured four tulip glasses of the seething yellow wine.

They were all four laughing and chattering so that for some seconds none
of them was aware of the sudden tense silence that had descended on the
crowded coffee shop.

Oh dear, Tara murmured.  Here come the cavalry., Six brown-uniformed
storm troopers had entered the room.  They had obviously been to some
ceremony or function of their regiment, for two of them carried furled
banners.  It was just as obvious that they had already been drinking;
their attitude was bellicose and swaggering and some of the other
customers of the coffee shop hurriedly gathered their hats and coats,
paid their bills and left the room.

The six troopers came strutting across to the vacant table next to where
the four of them were sitting, and ordered tankards of beer from the
waitress.  The owner of the coffee shop, anxious to avoid trouble, came
to their table, and greeted them obsequiously.  They talked for a short
while.

Then the proprietor took his leave of them by standing at attention and
giving the Nazi salute.  Immediately the six storm troopers jumped to
their feet and returned the salute, cracking the heels of their
jackboots together and shouting, Heil Hitler!  Mathilda Janine, who had
drunk at least one full glass of champagne, let out a shriek of laughter
and dissolved into helpless giggles, and the full attention of all the
troopers was instantly focused upon her.

Shut up, Matty, David implored, but that only made it Mathilda Janine
rolled her eyes and went scarlet in the face with the effort of trying
to contain her giggles, but in the end they exploded out of her with a
wild snorting whoop and the storm troopers exchanged glances and then
moved across in a bunch and stood shoulder to shoulder surrounding their
table.

The leader, a hefty middle-aged sergeant, said something and Tara
answered in school-girl German.

Ah, said the sergeant in heavily accented English, you are English!  My
sister is very young and silly.  Tara glared at Mathilda Janine who let
out another muffled snort through her handkerchief.  i They are English,
said the sergeant, an explanation of all madness, and would have turned
away, but one of the younger troopers had been staring at David.

Now he asked in passable English, You are the runner?  You are the
winner of the bronze medal.  David Abrahams.  David looked bashful and
nodded.

You are David Abrahams, the Jew runner.  The trooper enlarged on the
theme, and David's face went pale and set.

The two English-speaking storm troopers explained to the others, the
word juden was repeated, and then they all stared at David with hostile
faces and fists clenched on their hips as the sergeant asked loudly, Are
not the English and Americans ashamed to let the Jews and the negroes
win their medals for them?  Before they could answer Shasa had risen to
his feet, smiling politely.

I say, you chaps are barking up the wrong tree.  He isn't a Jew at all,
he's a Zulu.

How is this possible?  The sergeant looked puzzled.

Zulus are black.  Wrong again, old chap.  Zulus are born white. They
only go black when they've been left out in the sun.  We've always kept
this one in the shade.  You are joking, accused the sergeant.

Of course I am choking!  Shasa imitated his pronunciation. 'Wouldn't you
be, looking at what I'm looking at?  Shasa, for goodness sake sit down,
David told him.  There is going to be trouble.  But Shasa was inebriated
with champagne and his own wit and he tapped the sergeant on the chest.

Actually, my dear fellow, if you are looking for Jews, I am the only Jew
here.  You are both Jews?  the sergeant demanded, narrowing his eyes
threateningly.

Don't be a clot.  I've explained already, he's the Zulu and I'm the Jew.
That is a lie, said the sergeant.

By this time the entire clientele of the coffee shop was listening to
this exchange with full attention, and for those who did not understand
English their companions were translating.

Shasa was encouraged by all this attention, and reckless with champagne.
I see I shall have to prove my case to you.

Therefore to convince you that I am privy to all the age-old secrets of
Judaism, I will reveal one of our best-kept secrets to you. Have you
ever wondered what we do with that little piece the rabbi snips off the
end of us?  Shut up, Shasa, said David, What is he talking about?
Mathilda Janine asked with interest.

Shasa Courtney, don't be disgusting, said Tara.

Bitte?  said the storm trooper, looking uneasy, but the other customers
of the coffee house were grinning with anticipation.  Bawdy hurnour was
common currency on the Ku-damm and they were revelling in the
unaccustomed discomfiture of the storm troopers.

Very well, I shall tell you.  Shasa ignored David and Tara.

We pack them in salt, like kippers, and send them off to Jerusalem.
There in the sacred grove on the Mount of Olives on the day of the
Passover, the chief rabbi plants them in rows and makes a magic sign
over them and a miracle takes place, a miracle!  They begin to grow.,
Shasa made a gesture to describe the growing, Higher and higher, they
grow# The storm troopers watched his hand rise with mystified
expressions.  Then do you know what happens?  Shasa asked and the
sergeant shook his head involuntarily.

When they have grown into really big thick schmucks, we send them to
Berlin where they join the Nazi storm troopers.  They gaped at him, not
believing what they had heard and Shasa ended his recital, And they
teach them to say, he raised his right hand, Heil, what is sprang to
attention an that fellow's name again?  The sergeant let out a bellow
and swung a wild righthanded punch.  Shasa ducked, but unsteady with
champagne he lost his balance and went down with a crash pulling the
tablecloth with him, and the glasses shattered.  The champagne bottle
rolled across the floor, spurting wine, and two storm troopers jumped on
top of Shasa and rained punches on his head and upper body.

David leaped up to go to his assistance, and a storm trooper grabbed his
arms from behind.  David wrenched his right arm free, swung round and
belted a beautiful righthander into the trooper's nose.  The man howled
and released David to clutch his injured organ, but instantly two other
troopers seized David from behind and twisted his arms up behind his
back.

Leave him alone!  screamed Mathilda Janine and with a flying leap landed
on the shoulders of one of the troopers.

She knocked his cap over his eyes and grabbed a double handful of his
hair.  Leave David, you pig!  She tugged at his hair with all her
strength and the trooper spun in a circle trying to dislodge her.

Women were screaming, and furniture was shattering.  The proprietor
stood in the doorway of his kitchen, wringing his hands, his face
working pitifully.

Shasa Courtney, Tara yelled furiously.  You are behaving like a
hooligan.  Stop this immediately.  Shasa was half buried under a pile of
brown uniforms and swinging fists and made no audible reply.  The storm
troopers had been taken by surprise, but now they rallied swiftly.

Street fighting was their game.

Mathilda was dislodged with a heave of broad brown-shirted shoulders and
sent flying into the corner.  Three troopers jerked Shasa to his feet,
arms twisted up behind his back, and hustled him towards the kitchen
door.  David received the same treatment, a trooper on each of his arms.
The one with the injured nose following close behind, bleeding down his
shirt front and cursing bitterly.

The proprietor stood aside hurriedly, and they ran Shasa and David
through the kitchens, scattering chefs and serving maids, and out into
the alley behind the coffee house, knocking over the garbage cans as
Shasa struggled ineffectually.

None of the storm troopers spoke, There was no need to give orders. They
were professionals engaged in the sport they loved. Expertly they pinned
the two victims to the brick wall of the alley, while a trooper went to
work on each of them, switching punches from face to body and back to
the face, granting like pigs at the trough in time to the rhythm of
their blows.

Mathilda Janine had followed them out and again she tried to rush to
David's defence, but a casual shove sent her reeling back, tripping and
falling amongst the garbage cans, and the trooper returned to his task.

Tara in the kitchen was shouting angrily at the cafe proprieter call the
police, this instant.  Do you hear, They are killing two innocent people
out there.  But the proprietor made a helpless gesture.  No use,
Fraulein.  The police will not come. Shasa doubled over and they let him
fall.  Then all three of them started in with the boot.  The steel-shod
jackboots crashed into his belly and back and flanks.

The storm trooper working on David was sweating and panting with
exertion.  Now he stepped back, measured the shot carefully, and sent a
final upper cut smashing into David's dangling head.  It took David full
in the mouth and his head jerked backwards, cracking against the
brickwork and they let him collapse, face down onto the paving stones.

David lay slack and unmoving, making no effort to avoid the boots that
smashed into his inert body, and the storm troopers tired of the sport.
It was no fun to kick somebody who was not writhing and doubling up and
screaming for mercy.  Swiftly they gathered up their caps and banners
and in a group trotted away, past the two police constables who were
standing at the mouth of the alley trying to look disinterested.

Mathilda Janine dropped on her knees beside David and lifted his
battered head into her lap.

Speak to me, Davie, she wailed, and Tara came out of the kitchen with a
wet dishcloth and stooped over Shasa, trying not to show her anxiety.

It was some minutes before there were signs of life from the victims.
Then Shasa sat up and put his head between his knees, shaking it
groggily.  David pulled himself up on one elbow, and spat out a tooth in
a drool of blood-stained spittle.

Are you all right, Davie my boy?  Shasa asked through crushed lips.

Shasa, don't ever come to My rescue again, David croaked.  Next time
you'll get me killed.  Mathilda Janine helped them to their feet, but
now that Shasa had revived, Tara was bleak and disapproving.

That was the most despicable display I have ever seen, Shasa Courtney.
You were obscene and rowdy, and you asked for everything that you got.
That's a bit hard, old girl, Shasa protested, and he and David leaned
heavily on each other as they limped down the alley. One of the
constables waiting at the corner snarled at them as they passed What did
he say?  Shasa asked Tara.

He says, quite rightly, she translated frostily, that next time you will
be arrested for public violence.  As the two of them made their painful
way back down the Ku-damm, bloodied and battered, Mathilda Janine
hovering close at hand and Tara marching a dozen paces ahead of them,
trying to disassociate herself, they drew the quick horrified glances of
passersby who looked away immediately and then hurried on.

As the four of them rode up in the elevator of the Bristol, Mathilda
Janine asked thoughtfully, That story of yours, Shasa, you know about
growing things on the Mount of Olives.  I didn't understand it.  Tell
me, what is a schmuck?  David and Shasa doubled over with agonized
mirth, clutching their injuries.  Please, Matty, don't say anything
more, David pleaded.  It hurts so when I laugh.  Tara turned on her
sternly.  You just wait until I tell Daddy about your part in all this,
young lady.  He is going to be livid.  She was right, he was, but not as
furious as Centaine Courtney.

It turned out that Shasa had broken four ribs and a collar bone and ever
afterwards he maintained that his absence from the team accounted
directly for the Argentinian victory over them by ten goals to four in
the polo quarter-finals two days later.  Apart from two missing teeth,
David's injuries were superficial contusions, sprains and lacerations.

Not too much harm done, Centaine conceded at last.  At least there will
be no publicity,, one of those horrid little newspaper men writing
gloating spiteful articles.  She was wrong.  Amongst the clientele at
the Kranzler coffee house had been the South African correspondent for
Reuters, and his article was picked up by the South African Jewish
Times.

It played heavily upon Shasa Courtney's part in defending his Jewish
friend, the bronze medalist sprinter, and when they finally got back to
Cape Town, Shasa found himself a minor celebrity.  Both Shasa and David
were asked to speak at a luncheon of the Friends of Zion.

The law of unforeseen consequence, Blaine pointed out to Centaine.

How many Jewish voters do you suppose there are on the rolls? Centaine
squinted slightly as she calculated, and Blaine chuckled.

You truly are incorrigible, my sweeting!

The boxing hall in the great complex of the Reichssportfeld was filled
to capacity for the final bout in the light heavyweight division, and
there were ranks of brown-uniformed storm-troopers lining each side of
the aisle from the dressingrooms, forming an honour guard for the
contenders as they came down to the ring.

We thought it might be necessary to have them, Colonel Boldt explained
to Heidi Kramer as they sat in their ringside seats, and he glanced
significantly at the four judges.  All of them were Germans, all members
of the party, and it had taken some delicate negotiation and trading on
Colonel Boldt's part to arrange it so.

Manfred De La Rey was the first contender to enter the ring.  He wore
green silk shorts and a green vest with the springbok emblem on his
chest and his hair was freshly cropped into a golden stubble.  He swept
a quick glance around the ringside seats as he clasped both gloved fists
over his head to acknowledge the tremendous burst of applause that
greeted him.  The German sporting public had accepted him as one of
their heroes; this evening he was the champion of white racial
supremacy.

He picked out Heidi Kramer almost immediately, for he knew where to
expect her, but he did not smile.  She looked back at him as seriously,
but he felt the strength flow into his body, absorbed from her presence.
Then suddenly his gaze switched away from her, and he scowled, rage
mingling with the strength of his love.

That woman was here.  He always thought of Centaine Courtney as 'that
woman'.  She sat only three seats away from his beloved Heidi. Her dense
dark plume of hair was unmistakable, and she wore yellow silk and
diamonds, elegant and poised; he hated her so strongly that he could
taste it in his mouth, like gall and alum.

Why does she always come to hound me?  he wondered.

She had been there in the crowd more than once during the other matches
he had fought, and always that tall arrogant man, with large nose and
ears, sat beside her.

Centaine was watching him with that disconcerting enigmatic expression
in her dark eyes that he had come to recognize so well.  He turned his
back on her deliberately, trying to convey the full force of his
contempt and hatred, and watched Cyrus Lomax climb into the ring across
from where he stood.

The American had a well-muscled body the colour of milk chocolate, but
his magnificent head was all African, like one of those antique bronze
castings of an Ashanti Prince, with deep-domed brow and wide-spaced
eyes, thick lips sculpted into the shape of an Assyrian war bow, and a
broad flat nose.

He wore the red, white and blue stars and stripes on his chest and there
was an air of menace about him.

This one is the worst you will ever meet, Uncle Tromp had warned
Manfred.  If you can beat him, you can beat them all.  The referee
called them to the centre of the ring and announced them and the crowd
roared at Manfred's name.

He felt strong and indomitable as he went back to his corner.

Uncle Tromp smeared Vaseline on his cheeks and eyebrows and slipped the
red gumshield into his mouth.

He slapped Manfred's shoulder, an open-handed stinging blow that was
like the goad to the bull and he hissed in his ear.

Fast as a mamba!  Brave as a ratel!  Manfred nodded, mouthing the bulky
rubber shield, and went out to the chime of the gong, into the hot white
glare of lights.  The American came to meet him, stalking him like a
dark panther.

They fought matched and equal, they fought close and hard, blows with
the power to maim and stun slipping by just a shade wide, sensing each
other's intention with almost supernatural concentration and shifting
the head, pulling back, ducking, using the spring of the ropes, blocking
with forearm and glove and elbows, neither ever quite connecting but
both of them hostile and quick and dangerous.

The gong tolled the rounds, five, six and seven, Manfred had never been
forced to fight this long.  Always his victories had come swiftly,
ending in that sudden barrage of blows that smashed his opponent into
the canvas.  However, the hard training that Uncle Tromp had imposed
upon him had given him long wind, and toughened his legs and arms.  He
felt strong and invulnerable still, and he knew it had to come soon.  He
had only to wait it out.  The American was tiring.  His punches no
longer snapped with quite the same velocity.  The mistake must come and
Manfred waited for it, containing his passionate hunger to see the
American's blood.

it came halfway through the seventh round.

The American threw one of those straight hissing lefts, and not even
seeing it, sensing it with animal instinct, Manfred reared back pulling
in his chin and the blow brushed his face but stopped short.

Manfred was poised on the balls of his feet, with his weight back but
ready to move forward, his right arm was cocked, the fist clenched like
a blacksmith's hammer, and the American was a hundredth part of a second
slow on the recovery.  Seven hard rounds had tired him and he dragged a
fraction, and his right side was open.  Manfred could not see the
opening, it was too minute, too fleeting, but again that instinct
triggered him and experience guided his arm; he knew by the set of the
American's shoulders, the angle of his arm and the cock of his head
where the opening was.

it was too quick for conscious decision, and the punch was already
launched before he could think but the decision was made instinctively
and it was to end it in one.

Not his usual two-handed, swarming battering finish, but the single
stroke, decisive and irretrievable, that would end it all.

It began in the great elastic muscles of his calves and thighs,
accelerating like a stone in the swing of a slingshot through the twist
of his pelvis and spine and shoulders, all of it channelled into his
right arm like a wide roaring river trapped in a narrow canyon; it went
through the American's guard and burst into the side of his dark head
with a force that made Manfred's teeth clash together in his own skull.

It was everything he had, all his training and experience, all his
strength, all his guts and his heart and every finely tuned muscle was
behind that blow, and it landed solid and cleanly.

Manfred felt it go.  He felt the bones of his right hand break, snapping
and crackling like dry twigs, and the pain was a white electric thing
that flared back up his arm and filled his head with flames.  But in the
pain was triumph and soaring joy for he knew it was over.  He knew he
had won.

The flames of agony cleared from his vision and he looked to see the
American crumpled on the canvas at his feet, but the wild soaring of his
heart stopped and turned to a plunging stone of despair.  Cyrus Lomax
was still on his feet.  He was hurt and staggering, his eyes dull and
sightless, his legs filled with cotton waste and his skull with molten
lead, tottering on the very brink, but he was still on his feet.

Kill him!  screamed the crowd.  Kill him!  Manfred could see how little
it needed, just one more with the right hand, for the American was out
on his feet, just one more.  But there was no more, nothing left.  The
right hand was gone.

The American was reeling about drunkenly, bouncing off the ropes, knees
sagging and then by some immense effort of will recovering again.

The left hand.  Manfred summoned it all, everything that remained.  I've
got to take him with the left.  And through his own agony he went after
him again.

He threw the left hand, going for the head, but the American smothered
it with an uncoordinated forward lunge, and he threw both arms around
Manfred's shoulders and clinched him, clinging to him like a drowning
man.  Manfred tried to throw him off and the crowd noise was a berserk
thunder, the referee shouting above it Break!  Break!  but the American
held on just long enough.

When the referee got them apart, Cyrus Lomax's eyes were sighted and
focused; and he backed away in front of Manfred's desperate efforts to
land with the left hand, and the bell rang.

What is it, Manie?  Uncle Tromp seized him and guided him to his corner.
You had him beaten.  What went wrong?  My right, Manfred mumbled through
the pain, and Uncle Tromp touched it, just above the wrist and Manfred
almost screamed.  The hand was ballooning, the swelling spreading up the
arm even as they stared at it.

I'm throwing in the towel, Uncle Tromp whispered.  You can't fight with
that hand!  Manfred snarled at him, No!  His eyes were fierce and yellow
as he looked across the ring to where they were working on the dazed
American, cold compresses and sal volatile, slapping his cheeks, talking
to him, talking him round.

The bell rang for the start of the eighth round and Manfred went out and
saw with despair the new strength and coordination with which the
American was moving.  He was still afraid and uncertain, backing off,
waiting for Manfred's attack, but getting stronger every minute,
obviously puzzled at first by Manfred's failure to use the right hand
again, and then realization dawning in his eyes.

You all gone, he growled in Manfred's ear in the next clinch. 'No right
hand, white boy.  I'm going to eat you up now!  His punches started
hurting, and Manfred began to back away.  His left eye was closing up
and he could taste the coppery salt of blood in his mouth.

The American shot out a hard straight left-hander, and instinctively
Manfred blocked with his right, catching the blow on his glove; the pain
was so intense that blackness shaded his vision and the earth tipped
under him, and the next time he was afraid to block with the right and
the American's punch got through and slammed into his injured eye.  He
could feel the swelling hanging on his face like a bloated blood-sucking
tick, a fatpurple grape that closed the eye completely and the bell rang
to end the eighth round.

Two more rounds, Uncle Tromp whispered to him, compressing the swollen
eye with an ice-pack.  Can you see it out, Manie?  Manfred nodded and
went out to the gong for the ninth and the American came eagerly to meet
him, too eagerly, for he dropped his right hand for the big punch and
Manfred beat him to it, slamming in a hard left-hander that jolted Lomax
back on his heels.

If he had had the use of his right hand Manfred could have taken him yet
again, following up in that raging cross storm of blows that no opponent
could survive, but the right was maimed and useless, and Lomax ducked
away, backing off, recovering and circling in again, working on
Manfred's eye, trying to cut it open and with the last punch of the
round he succeeded.  He slashed the fat purple sac that closed the eye
with a glancing left, catching it with the inside of the glove, ripping
it open with the cross hatching of the laces, and it burst.  A sheet of
blood poured down Manfred,s face and splashed over his chest.

Before the referee could hold them up to examine the damage, the gong
sounded and Manfred staggered back to his corner as Uncle Tromp rushed
out to meet him.

I'm going to stop it,he whispered fiercely as he examined the terrible
wound.  You can't fight with that, you could lose the eye., 'If you stop
it now, Manfred told him, I will never forgive you.  His voice was low,
but the fire in his yellow eyes warned Tromp Bierman that he meant every
word.  The old man grunted.  He cleaned the wound, and applied a styptic
pencil.  The referee came to examine the eye, turning Manfred's face to
the light.

Can you go on?  he asked quietly.

For the Volk and the Ffthrer, Manfred answered him softly, and the
referee nodded.

You are a brave man!  he said and signalled for the fight to continue.

That last round was an eternity of agony, the American's blows
sledge-hammered Manfred's body, laying bruises on top of deep seeping
bruises, each of them sapping Manfred further, reducing his ability to
protect himself from the blows that followed.

Each breath was fresh agony as it stretched the torn muscles and
ligaments of his chest and burned the soft tissue of his lungs.  The
pain in his right hand flowed up his arm and mingled with the pain of
each new blow, and darkness lapped the vision of his single remaining
eye so that he could not see the punches coming.  The agony roared like
a rushing wind in his eardrums, but still he stayed on his feet.  Lomax
pounded him, smashing his face to raw meat, and still he stayed on his
feet.

The crowd was outraged, their blood lust turned to pity and then to
horror.  They were shouting for the referee to stop this atrocity, but
still Manfred stayed on his feet, making pathetic fumbling efforts to
punch back with his left hand, and the blows kept crashing into his
blind face and broken body.

At last, too late, much too late, the gong rang to end it and Manfred De
La Rey was still on his feet.  He stood in the centre of the ring,
swaying from side to side, unable to see, unable to feel, unable to find
his way back to his own corner, and Uncle Tromp ran out to him and
embraced him tenderly.  Uncle Tromp was weeping, tears running
shamelessly into his beard as he led Manfred back.

My poor Manie, he whispered.  I should never have let you.  I should
have stopped it!

On the opposite side of the ring Cyrus Lomax was surrounded by a crowd
of well-wishers.  They laughed and slapped his back, and Lomax did a
weary little dance of triumph, waiting for the judges to confirm his
victory, but shooting troubled glances across the ring at the man he had
destroyed.

As soon as the announcement was made he would go to him, to express his
admiration for such a show of raw courage.

Achtung!  Achtung!  The referee had the judges cards in one hand and the
microphone in the other.  His voice boomed over the loudspeakers. Ladies
and gentlemen.  The winner of the Olympic Gold Medal on points is,
Manfred De La Rey of South Africa.  There was a tense incredulous
silence in the vast hall that lasted for three beats of Manfred's racing
heart, and then a storm of protest, a roar of outrage and anger, of
booing and foot-stamping.  Cyrus Lomax was rushing around the ring like
a madman, shaking the ropes, shouting at the judges, dancing with
dismay, and hundreds of spectators were trying to climb into the ring to
stage an impromptu demonstration against the decision.

Colonel Boldt nodded at somebody near the back of the hall and the
squads of brown-shirted storm troopers moved quic backkly down the
aisles and surrounded the ring, driving the angry mob and clearing a
corridor to the dressingrooms down which Manfred was hustled.

Over the loudspeaker the referee was attempting to justify the decision.
Judge Krauser scored five rounds to De La Rey, one round drawn and four
rounds to Lomax, but nobody was listening to him, and the uproar almost
drowned out the full volume of the loudspeakers.

The woman must be five or six years older than you are,, Uncle Tromp
said carefully, choosing his words.  They were walking in the Tegel
Gardens and autumn's first chill was in the air.

She is three years older than I am, Manfred replied.  But that makes no
difference, Uncle Tromp.  All that matters is that I love her and she
loves me.  His right hand was still in plaster and he carried it in a
sling.

Manie, you are not yet twenty-one years of age, you cannot marry without
the permission of Your guardian.  You are my guardian, Manfred pointed
out, turning his head to watch him steadily with that disconcerting
topazyellow gaze and Uncle Tromp dropped his eyes.

How will you support your wife?  he asked.

The Reich's Department of culture has granted me a scholarship to finish
my law degree here in Berlin.  Heidi has a good job in the Ministry of
Information and an apartment, and I will box professionally to earn
enough to live on until I can begin my career as a lawyer. Then we will
return to South Africa.  You have planned it all, Uncle Tromp sighed,
and Manfred nodded; his eyebrow was still knotted with crusty black
scab, and he would be scarred for life.  He touched the injury now as he
asked, You will not deny me your permission, will you, Uncle Tromp?  we
will marry before you leave to go home, and we both want you to be the
one to marry us.  I am flattered.  Uncle Tromp looked distraught.  He
knew this lad, how stubborn he was once he had set on a course.

To argue further would merely confirm his decision.

You are a father to me, Manfred said simply.  And yet more than a
father.  Your blessing would be a gift without price.  Manie! Manie!
said Uncle Tromp.  You are the son I never had, I want only what is best
for you.  What can I say to persuade you to wait a little - not to rush
into this thing.  There is nothing which will dissuade me.  Manie, think
of your Aunt Trudi, I know she would want me to be happy, Manfred cut
in.

Yes, I know she would.  But, Manie, think also of little Sarah, 'What of
her?  Manfred's eyes went fierce and cold and he thrust out his jaw,
defiant with his own guilt.

Sarah loves you, Manie.  She has always loved you, even I have been able
to see that.  Sarah is my sister, and I love her.  I love her with a
brother's love.  I love Heidi with the love of a man, and she loves me
as a woman loves.  I think you are wrong, Manie.  I have always thought
that you and Sarah, Enough, Uncle Tromp.  I don't want to hear any more.
I will marry Heidi, I hope with your permission and blessing.

Will you make those your wedding gifts to us, please, Uncle Tromp?  And
the old man nodded heavily, sadly.  I give you both my permission and my
blessing, my son, and I will marry you with a joyous heart.

Heidi and Manfred were married on the bank of the Havel

Lake in the garden of Colonel Sigmund Boldt's home in the Granewald.  It
was a golden afternoon in early September with the leaves turning yellow
and red at the first touch of autumn.  To be there both Uncle Tromp and
Roelf Stander had stayed over when the Olympic teams scattered for home,
and Roelf stood up with Manfred as his best man while Uncle Tromp
conducted the simple ceremony.

Heidi was an orphan so Sigmund Boldt gave her away, and there were a
dozen or so of Heidi's friends, most of them her superiors and
colleagues in the Ministry of Propaganda and Information, but there were
others, her cousins and more distant relatives in the black dress
uniforms of the elite SS divisions, or the blue of the Luftwaffe or the
field grey of the Wehrmacht, and pretty girls, some of them in the
traditional peasant-style dirndls of which the Nazi Party so strongly
approved.

After the short and simple Calvinistic ceremony that Uncle Tromp
conducted, there was an al fresco wedding banquet provided by Colonel
Boldt, under the trees, with a four-piece band wearing Tyrolean hats and
lederhosen.  They played the popular Party-approved music of the day,
alternating with traditional country airs, and the guests danced on the
temporary wooden floor which had been laid over the lawn.

Manfred was so absorbed with the lovely new wife in his arms that he did
not notice the sudden excitement amongst the other guests, or the way
that Colonel Boldt hurried to greet the small party that was coming down
from the house, until suddenly the band broke into the stirring marching
song of the Nazi Party, the Horst Wessel song, All the wedding guests
were on their feet, standing rigidly to attention, and though he was
puzzled, Manfred stopped dancing and stood to attention with Heidi at
his side.  As the small party of new arrivals stepped onto the temporary
wooden dance floor, all the guests raised their arms in the Nazi salute
and cried together, Heil Hitler!  Only then did Manfred realize what was
happening, the incredible honour that he and Heidi were being accorded.

The man coming towards him wore a white jacket buttoned high at the
throat with the simple Iron Cross for valour its only decoration. His
face was pale, square and strong; his dark hair was brushed forward over
his high forehead, and there was a small clipped moustche under the
large well-shaped nose.  it was not an extraordinary face, but the eyes
were like no others Manfred had ever seen, they seared his soul with
their penetrating intensity, they reached to his heart and made him a
slave for ever.

His right hand was still encased in plaster as he held the Nazi salute
and Adolf Hitler smiled and nodded.  I have heard that you are a friend
of Germany, Herr De La Rey, he said.

I am of German blood, a true friend and your most ardent admirer.

I can find no words to describe the great but humble honour I feel in
your presence.  I congratulate you on your courageous victory over the
American negro.  Adolf Hitler held out his hand.  And I congratulate you
also on your marriage to one of the lovely daughters of the Reich.
Manfred took the Fuhrrer's hand in his own undamaged left hand and he
was trembling and filled with awe by the significance of the moment. 'I
wish you great joy, Hitler continued, and may your marriage forge iron
links between yourself and the German people.  The Fahrer's hand was
cool and dry, the strong yet elegant hand of an artist, and Manfred's
emotions welled up to choke him.  Always, my Fuhrer, the links between
us will last for ever.  Adolf Hitler nodded once more, shook hands with
Heidi, smiled at her joyous tears, and then he was leaving as suddenly
as he had arrived, with a word and a smile for a few of the most
important guests.

I never dreamed -'whispered Heidi, clinging to Manfred's arm. 'My
happiness is complete.  That is greatness, Manfred said, watching him
go.  That is true greatness.  It is hard to think he is mere mortal, and
not a god!

Sarah Bester pedalled down the main street of the little village of
Stellenbosch, weaving through the light traffic, smiling and waving at
anybody she recognized on the sidewalks.  Her school books were strapped
on the carrier behind the saddle of her bicycle.  The skirt of her
gymshp billowed up almost as high as her knees, and she had to keep
clutching at her school hat.

That morning her class had been given the results of the previous term's
work and she was bursting with the need to tell Aunt Trudi that she had
pulled up from fifth to second place.  The headmistress had noted on her
school report, Well done, Sarah, keep up the good work. It was her last
year, in October she would be seventeen and she would write her
matriculation the next month.

Manie would be so proud of her.  It was his inspiration and
encouragement which had done so much to make her one of the top girls in
the school.  She started to think about him now, daydreaming as she
pedalled along under the oaks.  He had been away so long, but soon he
would be home; then she would tell him and it would all be all right.
She wouldn't have to worry and cry alone at night.  Manie would be back
- strong, kind, loving Manie would make it all right again.

She thought of being married to him, cooking his breakfast, washing his
shirts, darning his socks, walking to church at his side, calling him
Meneer the way Aunt Trudi called Uncle Tromp, lying beside him every
night, waking beside him every morning and seeing his beautiful blond
head on the pillow beside her, and she knew there was nothing else in
all the world she wanted.

Only Manie, she whispered.  Always and only Manie.  He is all I have
ever had, all I have ever longed for.  Ahead of her she saw the postman
at the gate of the manse and she jumped down off the bicycle and called,
Have you got anything for us, Mr Grobler?  The postman grinned at her
and took a buff-coloured envelope from his leather purse.

A telegram, he told her importantly.  A telegram from overseas, but it's
not for you, little one, it's for your aunt., I'll sign for it!  Sarah
scribbled in his receipt book, propped her bicycle on the gate of the
manse and flew up the front steps.

Aunt Trudi!  she screamed.  A telegram!  Where are you?  She smelt
cooking odours, and knew where to look.

It's a telegram!  Sarah rushed into the kitchen.  Aunt Trudi was
standing over the long yellow-wood table with the rolling-pin in her
hands, flour to her elbows and wisps of silverblond hair tickling her
nose so that she blew at them as she straightened.  She was glowing
moistly from the heat of the kitchen range, and great pots of peach and
fig jam bubbled over the flames.

Goodness me!  What a to-do!  You must learn to act like a lady, Sarie,
you are not a child- A telegram!  Look, a real telegram!  It's the first
we've ever had.  Even Aunt Trudi was impressed.  She reached for it and
then paused.

My hands are covered with flour.  Open it, Sarie.  Sarah tore open the
envelope.  Shall I read it out?  she demanded.

Yes.  Yes, read it, who is it from?  It's from Uncle Tromp, he signs it
"Your dutiful husband Tromp Bierman".  Silly old man!  He has paid for
four unnecessary words, Aunt Trudi grumbled.  Read what he says.  He
says, "I have to inform you that Manfred was Sarah's voice tailed off
into silence and her bright expectant expression crumbled as she stared
at the sheet in her hands.

Go on, child, Aunt Trudi urged her.  Read it out.  Sarah began again,
her voice small and whispery.  "'I have to inform you that Manfred was
today married to a German girl named Heidi Kramer.  He plans to study at
the University of Berlin and will not be returning home with me.  I am
sure you wish him happiness as I do.  Your dutiful husband Tromp
Bierman." Sarah lifted her eyes from the form and they stared at each
other.

I cannot believe, Aunt Trudi breathed.  Not our Manfred.  He wouldn't,
he couldn't desert us., Then she noticed Sarah's face.  The child had
gone grey as the ashes in the fireplace.

Oh, my little Sarie.  Aunt Trudi's Plump features collapsed with
compassion and shared agony and she reached for the girl, but Sarah let
the telegram flutter from her fingers to the kitchen floor and whirled
and raced from the kitchen.

She snatched up her bicycle from the gate and stepped up into the
saddle.  She stood up on the pedals so as to drive harder, and her legs
pumped to the beat of her heart.  Her hat flew off her head and dangled
down her back, suspended on the elastic around her neck.  Her eyes were
wide and dry, her face still grey with shock, as she raced out of the
village, turning up past the old Lanzerac estate, heading instinctively
for the mountains.

When the track became too steep and rough she dropped the bicycle and
went on upwards on foot, through the pine forest until she reached the
first crest.  There she stumbled off the track and threw herself full
length on the damp bed of pine needles, on the exact spot where she had
given her love and her body and her soul to Manfred.

Once she had recovered her breath after the hard run up the
Mountainside, she lay quietly, neither sobbing nor weeping, merely
pressing her face into the curve of her own arm.

As the afternoon wore on, so the wind veered into the north west and the
clouds gathered on the high peaks above where Sarah lay.  At dusk it
began to rain, and the darkness came on prematurely.  The air turned
icy, and the wind whimpered in the pines, shaking down droplets onto her
prostrate body until her gymslip was soaked through.  She never lifted
her head, but lay and shivered like a lost puppy and her heart cried out
in the darkness.

Manfred, Manfred, where did you go to?  Why did I have to lose you?  A
little before morning broke, one of the search parties from the village,
which had scoured the mountainsides all night, stumbled upon her and
they carried her down the Mountainside.

It's pneumonia, Mevrou Bierman, the doctor told Aunt Trudi when she
called him to the manse for the second time that next night.  You are
going to have to fight for her life she doesn't seem to want to fight
herself.  Aunt Trudi would not allow them to take Sarah to the new town
hospital.  She nursed the girl herself, tending her day and night in the
small back bedroom, sponging the sweat and heat from her body while the
fever mounted, sitting beside the bed and holding her hot hand through
the crisis, not leaving her even when it had broken and Sarah lay pale
and wasted with the flesh melted off her face so that her features were
bony and gaunt and her lacklustre eyes too large for the bruised
cavities into which they had sunk.

On the sixth day, when Sarah was able to sit up and drink a little soup
without Aunt Trudi's assistance, the doctor made his final call and
behind the closed bedroom door gave Sarah a detailed examination.
Afterwards he found Aunt Trudi in the kitchen and spoke to her quietly
and seriously.

Once he had left the manse Aunt Trudi went back to the bedroom and sat
beside the bed, in the same chair on which she had conducted her long
vigil.

Sarah., She took the girl's thin hand.  it was light and frail and cold.
When did you last have your courses?  she asked.

Sarah stared at her without replying for long seconds, and then for the
first time she began to weep.  Slow, almost viscous tears welled up from
the depths of those haunted bruised eyes and her thin shoulders shook
silently.

Oh, my little girl.  Aunt Trudi reached for her and held her to the
bulky pillow of her bosom.  My poor little girl who did this to you?
Sarah wept silently and Aunt Trudi stroked her hair.  You must tell me,
Suddenly the gentling hand froze on Sarah's head in midstroke, as
understanding crashed in upon her.

Manie, it was Manie!  It was not a question, but the confirmation was
immediate as a painful sob came exploding up Out Of Sarah's tortured
chest.

Oh Sarie, oh my poor little Sarie. Involuntarily Aunt Trudi turned her
head towards a small framed photograph which stood on the table beside
the sick girl's bed.  It was a studio photograph of Manfred De La Rey in
boxer's shorts and vest, crouched in the classic purilists pose with the
silver championship belt around his waist.

The inscription read, To little Sarie.  From your big brother, Manie.
What a terrible thing!  Aunt Trudi breathed.  What will we do now?  The
following afternoon while Aunt Trudi was in the kitchen, larding a leg
of venison which was a gift from one of the parishioners, Sarah came in
on bare feet.

You should not be out of bed, Sarie, Aunt Trudi told her sternly, then
was silent as Sarah did not even glance in her direction.

The thin white cotton nightdress hung loosely on her wasted frame, and
she had to steady herself on the back of a kitchen chair for she was
weak from her sick bed.

Then she gathered herself and crossed like a sleepwalker to the kitchen
range.  With the tongs she lifted the round black cast-iron cover off
the fire box, and orange points of flame flickered through the opening.
Only then did Aunt Trudi realize that Sarah had the photograph of
Manfred in her hand.  She had removed it from the frame and she held it
up in front of her eyes and studied it for a few seconds.

Then dropped it into the opening of the firebox.

Rapidly the square of cardboard curled and blackened.  The image upon it
faded to ghostly grey and then was obscured by flames.  With the points
of the fire-tongs Sarah stabbed at the scrap of soft ash that remained,
crushing and pounding it to powder.  Even then she went on striking the
irons into the flames with unnecessary force, until there was nothing
left.  Then she replaced the cast-iron cover over the firebox and
dropped the tongs.  She swayed on her feet and might have toppled
forward onto the hot stove, but Aunt Trudi caught her and steered her to
a kitchen chair.

Sarah sat staring across the kitchen at the stove for many minutes
before she spoke.

I hate him!  she said softly, Aunt Trudi bowed her head over the haunch
of venison to hide her eyes.

We have to talk, Sarie, she said softly.  We have to decide what to do.
I know what to do, Sarah said and the tone chilled Aunt Trudi. it was
not the voice of a bright sweet child, but that of a woman hardened and
embittered and coldly angry with what life had offered her.

Eleven days later Roelf Stander returned to Stellenbosch, and six weeks
later he and Sarah were married in the Dutch Reformed Church.  Sarah's
son was born on the 16th March 1937.  It was a difficult birth, for the
infant was big-boned and she was small-hipped and her body still not
fully recovered from the pneumonia.

Roelf was allowed into the delivery room immediately

after the birth.  He stood over the cot staring down at the mottled
swollen face of the newborn infant.

Do you hate him, Roelf?  she asked from the bed.  Sarah's hair was
sodden with sweat and she was drawn and exhausted.  Roelf was silent for
a few moments while he considered the question.  Then he shook his head.

the qu

He is a part of you, he said.  I could never hate anything that is you

she held out her hand to him, and he came to stand beside

the bed and took it.  ou, Roelf.

You are a kind person.  I will be a good wife to you I promise you that.
I know exactly what you are going to say, Daddy.  mathilda Janine sat
opposite Blaine in his panelled ministerial office in the Parliament
building.

You do, do you?  Blaine asked.  Then let's hear from you exactly what
I'm going to Say.  Firstly, Mathilda Janine held up her index finger,
you are going to say that David Abrahams is a fine young man, a
brilliant law student and a sportsman of international reputation who
won one of the only two medals which this country was awarded at the
Berlin Olympics.  You are then about to say that he is gentle,
considerate and kind, that he has a marvelous sense of humour and dances
beautifully, that he is handsome in a funny sort of way and would make
any girl a wonderful husband.  Then you will say "but" and look grave!

I was going to say all that, was I?  Blaine shook his head with wonder.
All right.  Now I say "but" and look grave.

Please continue for me, Matty!

But, you say gravely, he is Jewish.  You will notice the inflexion, and
now you look not only grave but significantly grave. 'This puts a
certain amount of strain on my facial muscles, significantly grave. Very
well, continue.  My darling Daddy would not be so callow as to add,
"Don't get me wrong, Matty, some of my best friends are Jews." You would
never be as gauche as that, would you? 'Never!  Blaine tried not to
grin, even though he was still seriously worried by the proposition.  He
could never resist the impishness of his plain carrot-headed but beloved
youngest daughter.  I would never say that!

"'But," you would say, "mixed marriages are very difficult, Matty.

Marriage is a hard business without complicating it by different
religions and customs and ways of life." How wise of me, Blaine nodded.
And how would you reply?  I would tell you that for the past year I have
been taking instruction with Rabbi Jacobs and by the end of next month I
will be a Jewess!

Blaine winced.  You have never kept anything from me before, Matty!

I told Mummy!

I see!

still trying to make a game of it.

She smiled cheerily, Then you would say, "But, Matty, you are still a
baby."

Amd you would reply, "I will be eighteen next birthday." you would look
gruff and say, "What are David's prospects?"

And you would tell me, "David starts work with Courtney Mining and
Finance at the end of the year with a salary

of two thousand a year.

How did you know that?  Matty was stunned.  David only told me, She
broke off as she realized what his source had been and she fidgeted in
her seat.  Her father's relationship with Centaine Courtney troubled her
more than she could ever tell him.

Do you love him, Matty?  Yes, Daddy.  With all my heart.  And you have
already obtained your mother's permission that I can be sure of.  Over
the years both Mathilda Janine and Tara had become adept at playing
Isabella and Blaine off against each other.

mathilda Janine nodded guiltily, and Blaine selected a cheroot from the
humidor on his desk.  While he prepared it, he frowned thoughtfully.

It's not a thing to go into lightly, Matty.  I am not going into it
lightly.  I've known David two years.  I always thought you might make a
career- I am, Daddy.  My career is going to be making David happy and
giving him lots and lots of babies.  He lit the cheroot and grumbled.
Well then, you'd better send your David to see me.  I want to warn him
what will happen to him if he doesn't look after my little girl.
Mathilda Janine shot round the desk, dumped herself into his lap and
flung both arms around his neck.  You are the most wonderful father any
girl ever had!  When I give in to you!  he qualified the compliment, and
she hugged him until her arms and his neck ached.

Shasa and David flew up to Windhoek in the Rapide to fetch Abe Abrahams
and his wife down for the wedding.  The rest of David's family and most
of his friends, including Dr TWentyman-jones, came down by train.
Together with the friends and family of Mathilda Janine Malcomess this
made up a multitude that filled the great synagogue in the Gardens
suburb to capacity.

David would dearly have liked Shasa to act as his best man. However, it
had taken some delicate persuasion to get the strictly orthodox Rabbi
Jacobs to perform the ceremony for a bride who had clearly converted to
the Faith for the express purpose of marriage rather than out of purely
religious commitment.  David could not therefore try to smuggle a
gentile best man into the schul, and Shasa had to be content with the
position of pole-holder at one corner of the huppah canopy.  However,
Shasa made a hilariously funny speech at the reception which Blaine gave
at the house in Newlands Avenue, with David as the butt of his wit.

The wedding reception provided Shasa with an opportunity to effect one
of his periodic reconciliations with Tara Malcomess.  Their relationship
over the two years since the Berlin Olympics had been storm and sunny
weather alternating so rapidly that even the two protagonists themselves
were not always certain as to how matters stood between them at any
given time.

They managed to occupy opposing grounds on almost every issue; though
politics was their favourite subject of dissension, the plight of the
poor and oppressed in a land where there were plenty of both of these
classes was another perennial winner.

Tara could usually find plenty to say about the insensitivity of the
privileged rich white ruling classes, and the iniquity of a system which
enabled a young man, whose only proven distinctions were a beautiful
face and a rich and indulgent mother, to number amongst his playthings
fifteen polo ponies, an SS Jaguar in British racing green with the
special three and a half litre engine, and a De Havilland Tiger Moth
biplane, while thousands of black children had their little bellies
bloated with malnutrition and their legs bowed and deformed by rickets.

These subjects did not exhaust their genius at finding contentious
issues.  Tara had strong views on so-called sportsmen who went out into
the veld armed with high-powered rifles to blast the innocent and
beautiful animals and birds; nor did she approve of the obvious relish
with which some witless young men regarded the slow but inexorable
approach of war clouds for the promise of excitement that they seemed to
offer.  She was scornful of anyone who was satisfied with a second-class
degree when it was apparent that with just a little application they
could have finished an expensive education, denied to tens of thousands
of others, with a cum laude degree in engineering.

On the other hand, Shasa thought it sacrilege that a girl who had the
face and body of a goddess should try to disguise these facts in an
attempt to be taken for a daughter of the proletariat.  Nor did he
approve of this same young woman spending most of her waking hours
either in study, or in the slums and shanty towns that had sprung up on
the Cape Flats, dishing out to snot-nosed piccaninnies free soup the
ingredients of which she had helped obtain by standing on street corners
with a beggar's box.

He especially did not like the medical students and newly qualified
young doctors, bolsheviks one and all, with whom she spent so much time
in her capacity as an unpaid and untrained nurse in the volunteer
clinics, tending unwashed and highly infectious brown and black patients
suffering from tuberculosis, syphilis, infant dysentery, scabies, the
secondary effects of chronic alcoholism and all the other unlovely
consequences of poverty and ignorance.

St Francis of Assisi was lucky he didn't have you to compete with -
you'd have made him look like Attila the Hun.  He found her friends
boring in their serious singlemindedness, and ostentatious in their
left-wing beards and shoddy dress.

They just lack any style or class, Tara.  I mean, how can you bear to
walk in the street with one of them?

Their style is the style of the future, and their class is the class of
all humanity., Now you are even talking like one of them, for cat's
sake!  However, these differences were mild and without real substance
when compared to their truly monumental disagreement on the subjects of
Tara Malcomess chastity and virginity.

For God's sake, Tara, Queen Victoria has been dead for thirty-seven
years.  This is the twentieth century.  Thank you for the history
lesson, Shasa Courtney, but if you try to get your hand into my bloomers
again I am going to break your arm in three separate and distinct
places., What you have got in there isn't so bloody special. There are
plenty of other young ladies, I "'Ladies" is a euphemism, but let that
pass.  I suggest that in the future you confine your attentions to them
and leave me alone.  That is the only sensible suggestion you have made
all evening, Shasa told her in an icy fury of frustration and started
the Jaguar sports car with a thunder of exhausts and superchargers that
echoed through the pine forests and startled all the other couples
parked in the darkness about the pseudo-Greek temple that was the
memorial to Cecil John Rhodes.

They drove down the winding mountain road at a savage pace, and Shasa
skidded the big sports car to a halt in the gravel in front of the
double mahogany doors of the Malcomess home.

Don't bother to hold the door for me, Tara said coldly, and slammed it
so hard that he flinched.

That had been two months before, and there hadn't been a day since then
that Shasa hadn't thought of her.  When he was sweating in the heat of
the great pit of the H'ani Mine or poring over a contract with Abe
Abrahams in the Windhoek office or watching the muddy brown waters of
the Orange river being transformed into sheets of silver by the spinning
overhead sprinklers of the irrigation equipment, Tara's image would pop
uninvited into his mind.

He tried to erase it by flying the Tiger Moth so low that the landing
wheels raised puffs of dust from the surface of the Kalahari, or by
absorbing himself in precise and intricate acrobatic evolutions, the
spin and barrel roll and stall turn, but as soon as he landed Tara's
memory was waiting for him.

He hunted the red-maned Kalahari lions in the desert wilderness beyond
the mystic hills of the H'ani, or immersed himself in the multifarious
affairs of the Courtney compantudying under his mother, watching her
methods and ies, s absorbing her thinking, until she trusted him
sufficiently to put him in control of some of the smaller subsidiaries.

He played the game of polo with almost angry dedication, pushing himself
and the horses under him to the outer limits, and brought the same
single-minded determination to the pursuit and seduction of a daunting
procession of women young and not so young, plain and pretty, married
and single, more and less experienced, but when he saw Tara malcomess
again he had the strange hollow feeling that he had only been half alive
during those months of separation.

For her sister's wedding, Tara had put aside the pretentiously drab
uniform of the left-wing intellectual, and as a bridesmaid she was
dressed in grey silk with a blue sheen to it which, beautiful as it was,
could not quite match the steely grey of her eyes.  She had changed her
hairstyle, cutting it short; the thick smoky curls formed a neat cap
around her head, leaving the back of her long neck bare, and this seemed
to emphasize her height and the length and perfection of her limbs.

They looked at each other for a moment across the length of the crowded
marquee, and it seemed to Shasa that lightning had flashed across the
tent; for an instant he knew that she had missed him as much and thought
about him as often.  Then she nodded politely and turned her full
attention back to the man beside her.

Shasa had met him once before.  His name was Hubert Langley and he was
one of Tara's bleeding-heart brigade.  He wore a shabby tweed jacket
with leather elbow patches when most of the other male guests were in
morning dress.  He was an inch shorter than Tara, with steel-rimmed
spectacles and prematurely thinning blond hair.  His beard was the
colour and texture of the plumage of a day-old chicken, and he lectured
in sociology at the university.

Tara had once confided in Shasa.  Huey is actually a card-carrying
member of the Communist Party, isn't that remarkable?  Her voice was
awed.  He is totally committed and he has an absolutely brilliant mind.
One might call him a shining jewel in a greasy and grubby setting, Shasa
remarked, thereby precipitating another of their periodic estrangements.

Now he watched as Huey laid one of his freckled paws on Tara's
unblemished forearm, and when he touched Tara's cheek with his wispy
moustaches and whispered one of the gems from that absolutely brilliant
mind into her pink shelllike ear, Shasa realized that slow strangulation
was too good for him.

He sauntered across the tent to intervene and Tara greeted him coolly,
perfectly hiding the fact that her pulse was thumping loudly in her
ears.  She hadn't realized how intensely she had missed him until she
watched him making his speech, urbane and self-assured, amusing and so
infuriatingly good-looking.

However, we are not climbing on the same old merry-goround again, she
warned herself, and put up all her defences as he took the chair on the
other side of her and smiled at her and teased her lightly while looking
at her with open admiration, which was so hard to resist.  They had
shared so much together, friends and places and fun and fights, and he
knew exactly how to tickle her sense of humour.  She realized that once
she started to laugh it was all over, and she held out against it, but
he worked on her defences with skill and perfect timing, adroitly
breaking them down as swiftly as she set them up, until at last she
surrendered with a tinkle of laughter which she could no longer contain,
and he followed up swiftly, cutting her out from Huey's side.

From the balcony Mathilda Janine singled out her elder sister and tossed
her bouquet directly at her.  Tara made no effort to catch it but Shasa
snatched it out of the air and handed it to Tara with a bow, while the
other wedding guests applauded and looked knowing.

As soon as David and Matty had departed, dragging a bunch of old shoes
and tin cans behind David's old bullnosed Morris, Shasa worked Tara out
of the marquee and spirited her away in the Jaguar.  He didn't make the
mistake of taking her back up the mountain to the Rhodes memorial, the
scene of their last historic battle.  Instead he drove out to Hout Bay
and parked on the top of the precipitous cliffs.

While the sun set in a silent bomb-burst of orange and red into the
sombre green Atlantic, they fell upon each other in a frenzy of
reconciliation.

Tara's body was divided into two zones by an invisible but distinct line
around her waist.  On occasions of extreme goodwill such as this, the
area above the line was, after a suitable show of resistance, made
available to him.  However, the area south of the line was inviolate, a
restriction that left them both strung up with nervous tension when in
the dawn they finally and reluctantly parted with one last lingering
kiss at Tara's front door.

This latest reconciliation lasted four months which was a new record for
them, and after preparing an emotional balance-sheet on which the many
advantages of bachelorhood were overbalanced by one single weighty
consideration, I cannot live without her, Shasa formally proposed
marriage to Tara Malcomess and was devastated by her reply.

Don't be silly, Shasa, apart from a sort of vulgar animal attraction,
you and I have absolutely nothing in common.  That is the most utter
bilge, Tara, he protested.  We come from the same backgrounds, we speak
the same language, laugh at the same jokes, 'But Shasa you don't care.
You know that I plan to enter Parliament. 'That is a career decision,
not a thing of the heart, that isn't caring for the poor and the needy
and the helpless.

I care for the poor

You

care for Shasa Courtney, that's who you really care for.  Her voice
rasped like a stiletto drawn from its sheath.

For you the poor is anybody who can afford to ran only five polo ponies.
Your papa had fifteen nags in training at the last count, he pointed out
tartly.

You leave my father out of this,, she flashed at him.

Daddy has done more for the black and brown people of this country He
held up both hands to stop her.  Come on, Tara!  You know I am Blaine
Malcomess's most ardent admirer.  I was not trying to insult him, I was
simply trying to get you to marry me.  It's no good, Shasa.

It's one of my unshakable convictions that the vast wealth of this land
must be redistributed, removed from the hands of the Courtneys and the
Oppenheimers and given That's Hubert Langley speaking, not Tara
Malcomess.

Your little Commie pal should think of generating new wealth rather than
dividing up the old.  When you take everything we have, the Courtneys
and the Oppenheimers, and share it out equally, there would be enough
for a square meal for everybody, twenty-four hours later we would all be
starving again, the Courtneys and the Oppenheimers included., There you
are!  I She was triumphant.  You are quite happy to see everybody starve
but yourself.  He gasped at the injustice, and rallied to launch a
fullscale counterattack, but just in time he saw the steely grey battle
light in her eyes and checked himself.

If you and I were married,he made his voice humble, you could influence
me, persuade me to your way of thinking She had been poised for one of
their marvelously exhilarating shouting matches, and now she looked
slightly crestfallen.

You crafty little capitalist she said.  That's not fighting fair.

I don't want to fight with you, my dear girl.  In fact,

what I want to do with you is diametrically the opposite of fighting.
Despite herself, she giggled.  That's another thing I have against you,
you carry your mind around in your underpants.  You still haven't
answered my question: will you marry me?  to hand in by nine o'clock
tomorrow I have an essay morning, and I am on duty at the clinic from
six o'clock this evening.  Please take me home now, Shasa. 'Yes or no?
he demanded.

Perhaps, she said, but only after I detect a vast improvement in your
social conscience, and certainly not before I have obtained my master's
degree.  That's another two years.  Eighteen months, she corrected him.
And even then it's not a promise, it's only a big fat "perhaps"., I
don't know if I can wait that long.  Then bye-bye, Shasa Courtney.  They
never extended their record beyond four months, for three days later
Shasa received a phone call.  He was at a meeting with his mother and
the new winemaker that Centaine had recently brought out to Weltevreden
from France.

They were discussing the designs for the labels on the latest vintage of
Cabernet Sauvignon when Centaine's secretary came through to her office.

There is a phone call for you, Master Shasa.  I can't come now. Take a
message and I'll call back.  Shasa did not even look up from the display
of labels on Centaine's desk.

It's Miss Tara, and she says it's urgent.  Shasa glanced sheepishly at
Centaine.  it was one of her strict maxims that business came first, and
did not mix with any of his social or sporting activities, but this time
she gave him a nod.

I won't be a minute.  He hurried out and was back within seconds.

What on earth is it?  Centaine stood up quickly when she saw his face.

Tara, he said.  It's Tara., Is she all right?  She's in jail.  In
December of the year 1838 on a tributary of the Buffalo river, the Zulu
King Dingaan had sent his impis of warriors armed with rawhide shield
and assegai against the circle of wagons of the Voortrekkers, the
ancestors of the Afrikaner people.

The wheels of the wagons were bound together with trekchains and the
spaces between them blocked with thorn branches.  The Voortrekkers stood
to the barricade with their long muzzle loaders, all of them veterans of
a dozen such battles, brave men and the finest marksmen in the world.

They shot down the Zulu hordes, choking the river from bank to bank with
dead men and turning its waters crimson, so that for ever after it was
known as Blood river.

On that day the might of the Zulu empire was shattered, and the
Voortrekker leaders, standing bare-headed on the battlefield, made a
covenant with God to celebrate the anniversary of the victory with
religious service and thanksgiving for all time.

This day had become the most holy date in the Calvinistic Afrikaner
calendar after the day of Christ's birth.  It celebrated all their
aspirations as a people, it commemorated their sufferings and honoured
their heroes and their forefathers.

Thus the hundredth anniversary of the battle had peculiar significance
for the Afrikaners and during the protracted celebrations the leader of
the Nationalist Party declared, We must make South Africa safe for the
white man.  It is shameful that white men are forced to live and work
beside lesser breeds; coloured blood is bad blood and we must be
protected from it.  We need a second great victory if white civilization
is to be saved.  Over the months that followed, Dr Malan and his
Nationalist Party introduced a series of racially orientated bills to
the House.  These ranged from making mixed marriages from a crime, to
the physical segregation of the whites from men of colour, whether
Asiatic or African, and disenfranchising all coloured persons who
already had the vote while ensuring that those who did not have it,
remained without it.  Up until the middle of 1939 Hertzog and Smuts had
managed to head off or defeat these proposals.

The South African census distinguished between the various racial
groups, the Cape-coloured and other mixed breeds'.  These were not, as
one might believe, the progeny of white settlers and the indigenous
tribes, but were rather the remnants of the Khoisan tribes, the
Hottentots and Bushmen and Damaras, together with descendants of Asiatic
brought out to the Cape of Good Hope slaves who had been in the ships of
the Dutch East India Company.

Taken together they were an attractive people, useful and productive
members of a complex society.  They tended to be small-boned and
light-skinned with almond eyes in faintly oriental features.  They were
cheerful, clever and quickwitted, fond of pageant and carnival and
music, dextrous and willing workers, good Christians or devout Muslims.

They had been civilized in Western European fashion for centuries and
had lived in close and amiable association with the whites since the
days of slavery.

The Cape was their stronghold and they were better off than most other
coloured groups.  They had the vote, albeit on a separate roll from the
whites, and many of them, as skilled craftsmen and small traders, had
achieved a standard of living and affluence surpassing that of many of
their white neighbours.  However, the majority of them were domestic
servants or urban labourers surviving just above or below subsistence
level.  These people now became the subject of Dr Daniel Malan's
attempts to enforce segregation in the Cape as well as every other
corner of the land.

Hertzog and Smuts were fully aware that many of their own followers
sympathized with the Nationalists, and that to oppose them rigidly might
easily bring down the delicate coalition of their United Party.
Reluctantly they put together a counter-proposal, for residential
segregation, which would disrupt the delicate social balance as little
as possible and which, while making law a situation which already
existed, would appease their own party and cut the ground from under the
Nationalist opposition's feet.

We aim to peg the present position, General Jan Smuts explained, and a
week after this explanation a large orderly crowd of coloured people,
joined by many liberal whites, gathered in the Greemnarket Square in the
centre of Cape Town peaceably to protest against the proposed
legislation.

Other organizations, the South African Communist Party and the African
National Congress, the Trotsky National Liberation League and the
African Peoples Organization, scented blood in the air and their members
swelled the ranks of the gathering, while in the front row centre, right
under the hastily erected speakers stand, auburn hair shining and
grey-blue eyes flashing with righteous ardour, stood Tara Malcomess.  At
her side, but slightly below her level, was Hubert Langley, backed by a
group of Huey's sociology students from the University.  They stared up
at the speaker, enthralled and enchanted.

This fellow is very good, Hubert whispered.  I wonder why we have never
heard of him before.  He is from the Transvaal, one of his students had
overheard and leaned across to explain.  One of the top men in the
African National Congress on the Witwatersrand.  Hubert nodded.  Do you
know his name?  Gama, Moses Gama.  Moses, the name suits him, the one to
lead his people out of captivity., Tara thought that she had seldom seen
a finer-looking man, black or white.  He was tall and lean, with the
fare of a young pharaoh, intelligent, noble and fierce.

We live in time of sorrow and great danger, Moses Gama's voice had a
range and timbre that made Tara shiver involuntarily.  A time that was
foreseen in the Book of Proverbs., He paused and then spread his hands
in an eloquent gesture as he quoted.  There is a generation, whose teeth
are as swords and there jaw teeth as knives to devour the poor from the
earth, and the needy from among men.  d again.

That's magnificent!  Tara shivered again.  MY friends, we are the poor
and the needy.  When each of us stands alone we are weak, alone we are
the prey for those with teeth like swords.  But together we can be
strong.

if we stand together, we can resist them.  Tara joined in the applause,
clapping until the palms of her hands were numb, and the speaker stood
calmly waiting for silence.  Then he went on, The world is like a great
pot of oil slowly heating.  When it boils over there will be turmoil and
steam and it will feed the fire beneath it.  The flames will fly up to
the sky and afterwards nothing will be the same again.  The world we
know will be altered for ever, and only one thing is certain, as certain
as the rise of tomorrows sun.  The future belongs to the people, and
Africa belongs to the Africans.  Tara found she was weeping hysterically
as she clapped and screamed her adulation.

After Moses Gama, the other speakers were dull and halting and she was
angry with their ineptitude, but when she looked for him in the crowd
Moses Gama had disappeared.

A man like him dare not stay too long in one place, Hubert explained.
They have to move like the will o' the wisp to keep ahead of the police.
A general never fights in the front line.  They are too valuable to the
revolution to be used as cannon-fodder.  Lenin only returned to Russia
after the fighting was over.  But we will hear of Moses Gama again mark
my words.  Around them the crowd was being marshalled to form up into a
procession behind a band, a fifteen-piece marching band, any gathering
was an excuse for the Cape-coloured people to make music, and in ranks
four and five abreast the demonstration began to snake out of the
square.  The band played 'Alabama', setting a festive mood, and the
crowd was laughing and singing; it seemed a parade rather than a
demonstration.

We will be peaceful and orderly, the organizers reinforced their
previous orders, passing them down the column.  No trouble, we want no
trouble with the police.  We are going to march to the Parliament
building and hand a petition to the prime minister.  There were two or
three thousand in the procession, more than they had hoped for.  Tara
marched in the fifth rank just behind Dr Goollarn Gool and his daughter
Cissie and the other coloured leaders.

With the band leading them, they turned into Adderley Street, the main
city thoroughfare.  As they marched up towards the Parliament building,
the ranks of the procession were swelled by the idlers and the curious,
so that as their leaders attempted to turn into Parliament Lane, they
were followed by a column of five thousand, a quarter of a mile long,
almost half of whom were there for the fun and the excitement, rather
than from any political motives.

At the entrance to Parliament Lane a small detachment of police was
waiting for them.  The road had been barricaded, and there were more
police armed with batons and sjamboks, those long black whips of
hippohide, being held in reserve further up the road in front of the
fence of castiron palings which protected the Parliament building.

The procession came to a ragged halt at the police barrier and Dr Gool
signalled the band to silence, then went forward to parley with the
white police inspector commanding the detail while the photographers and
reporters from local newspapers crowded around them to record the
negotiations.

I wish to present a petition to the prime minister on behalf of the
coloured people of the Cape Province, Dr Gool began.

Dr Gool, you are conducting an unlawful assembly and I must ask you to
get your people to disperse, the police inspector countered. None of his
men had been issued with firearms and the atmosphere was almost
friendly.  One of the trumpet-players blew a loud raspberry and the
inspector smiled at the insult and wagged his finger like a schoolmaster
at the culprit; the crowd laughed.  This was the kind of paternal
treatment which everybody understood.

Dr Gool and the inspector haggled and argued in a goodnatured fashion,
undeterred by pleasantries from the wags in the crowd, until finally a
parliamentary messenger was sent for.  Dr Gool handed him the petition
and then returned to address the procession.

By this time many of the idlers had lost interest and drifted away; only
the original nucleus of the procession remained.

MY friends, our petition has been conveyed to the prime minister, Dr
Gool told them.  We have achieved our object and we can now rely on
General Hertzog, as a good man and a friend of the people, to do the
just thing.  I have promised the police that we will all go home quietly
now, and that there will be no trouble.  We have been insulted, Hubert
Langley called out loudly.

They will not even deign to speak to us.  Make them listen to us,
another voice called and there was loud agreement and equally loud
dissent.  The procession began to lose its orderly form and to heave and
sway.

Please!  My friends -'Dr Gool's voice was almost drowned in the uproar,
and the police inspector called an order and the reserves moved down the
street and formed up behind the barricade, batons at the ready, facing
the head of the procession.

For some minutes the mood was ugly and confused, and then the coloured
leaders prevailed and the procession began to break up and disperse,
except for a hard core of three or four hundred.  All of these were
young, many of them students, both black and white, and Tara was one of
the few females amongst them.

The police moved forward and firmly herded them away from the barricade,
but spontaneously they re-formed into a smaller but more cohesive band
and began marching back towards District Six, the almost exclusively
coloured area of the city which abutted onto the central commercial
area, but whose diffuse and indistinct boundaries would be one of the
subjects of the proposed legislation physically to segregate the racial
groups.

The younger, more aggressive marchers linked arms and began to chant and
sing, and the police detachments shadowed them, firmly frustrating their
efforts to turn back into the central area of the city, shepherding them
towards their own areas.

Africa for the Africans, they chanted as they marched.

We are all the same colour under the skin.  Bread and freedom., Then
Hubert Langley's students became more lyrical and picked up the ancient
refrain of the oppressed that he had taught them: When Adam delved and
Eve span Who was then the gentleman?

The band began to play the more modern protest: Mine eyes have seen the
glory of the coming of the Lord., And after that they launched into:
Nkosi sikelela Africa God Save Africa.  As they entered the narrow lanes
and higgledy-piggledy alleys of District Six, the street gangs emerged
to watch with interest, and then to join the fun.  In the crowded
streets were those with personal scores to settle, and there were also
the blatantly criminal and opportunistic gang members.

A half brick came sailing in a high arc out of the packed ranks and
crashed through the plate-glass window front of one of the white general
dealers, a man notorious for overcharging and restricting credit.  The
crowd was galvanized, a woman screamed, men began to howl like wolves in
a pack.

Somebody reached through the jagged hole in the shop window and grabbed
an armful of men's suits.  Further down the street another window went
with a shattering of glass shards, and the police grouped more tightly
and moved forward.

Tara was trying desperately to help restore order, pleading with the
laughing looters as they stampeded into the shops, but she was shoved
aside and almost knocked down and trampled underfoot.

Go home, whitey, one of the gang members shouted in her face. 'We don't
want you here.  Then he ducked into the doorway of the shop and picked
up a new Singer sewingmachine in his arms.

Stop it!  Tara met him as he came back through the door of the shop.
]Put it back.  You are spoiling everything.  Don't you see that's what
they want you to do?  She beat her clenched fists on the man's chest,
and he recoiled before her fury.  However, the lane was jammed with
humanity, looters, gang members, ordinary citizens and political
protesters confused and angry and afraid.  From the end of the lane the
police charged in a phalanx; batons rising and falling, siamboks
swinging, they began to sweep the mob down the street.

Tara ran out of the looted store just at the moment when a large
constable in dark blue uniform was laying on his baton with a will, his
target a skinny little Malay tailor who had scampered out of his shop to
try to retrieve a bolt of looted cloth.

The constable hit the tailor with a full swing of the baton, crushing
his red pillbox fez, and when the little man dropped on the paving
stones, stooped over him to aim another blow at his head.  Tara launched
herself at the policeman.  It was a reflex action, like a lioness
protecting one of her cubs.  The policeman was bent forward, his back to
her, and Tara took him off balance.  He went down sprawling, but Tara
had a death grip on his baton and the wrist-strap parted.

Suddenly she found herself armed and triumphant with the blue-jacketed
enemy of the proletariat, minions of the bourgeoisie, before her.

She had come in behind the rank of advancing police as they passed the
shop, and their backs were turned to her.

The thuds of the swinging batons and the terrified squeals of the
victims infuriated her.  There were the poor and the needy and the
oppressed and here were the oppressors, and here also with raised baton
was Tara Malcomess.

Normally it would have taken Shasa little over half an hour to drive the
Jaguar from the Anreith gates of Weltevreden to the charge office in
Victoria Street.  This afternoon it took him almost an hour and a good
deal of fast talking.

The police had cordoned off the area from Observatory Main Road right to
the old fort on the extreme south end of the Grand Parade.  An ominous
shroud of black smoke hung over District Six and drifted out over Table
Bay and the police at the roadblocks were tense and on edge.

You can't go in there, sir, a sergeant flagged down the Jaguar. 'Nobody
allowed in there.  Those black bastards are throwing bricks and burning
everything in sight.  Sergeant, I have just had a message.  My fiance is
in there and she needs me.  She's in terrible trouble, you have to let
me go to her.  Orders, sir, I'm sorry.  There were half a dozen
constables at the barricade, four of them coloured municipal police.

Sergeant, what would you do if it were your wife or mother who needed
you?  The sergeant glanced around him sheepishly.  I tell you what I'll
do, sir.  My men are going to open the roadblock for one minute and we
are going to turn our backs.  I never saw you and I don't know nothing
about you.  The streets were deserted but littered with debris, loose
stones and bricks and broken glass that crunched under the tyres of the
Jaguar.  Shasa drove fast, appalled at the destruction he saw around
him, slitting his eyes against the drifts of smoke that obscured his
vision every few hundred yards.

Once or twice he saw figures lurking in the alleys, or watching from the
upper windows of the undamaged buildings, but nobody attempted to stop
him or attack him.

Nevertheless, it was with intense relief that he reached the police
station in Victoria Road, and the protection of the hastily marshalled
police riot squads.

Tara Malcomess.  The sergeant at the front desk of the charge office
recognized the name immediately.  Yes, you could say that we know about
her!  After all, it took four of my men to carry her in here.

What are the charges, Sergeant?  Let me see, He consulted the charge
sheet.  So far we have only got attending an unlawful assembly, wilful
destruction of property, inciting to violence, using abusive and
threatening language, obstructing the police in the execution of their
duty, assaulting a policeman and,or policemen, common assault, assault
with an offensive weapon and,or assault with intent.  I will put up her
bail.  That, sir, will cost a pretty penny, I should say.  Her father is
Colonel Malcomess, the cabinet minister.  Well, why didn't you say so
before?  Please wait here, sir.  Tara had a blackened eye and her blouse
was torn; her auburn hair stood up in tangled disarray as she peered out
at Shasa between the bars of her cell.

What about Huey?  she demanded.

Huey can cook in Hades for I care.  Then I'm going to cook with him,
Tara declared truculently.  I'm not leaving here without him. Shasa
recognized the obstinate set of her madonna-like features, and sighed.
So it cost him one hundred pounds fifty for Tara and fifty for Huey.

I'll be damned if I will give him a lift though, Shasa declared.

Fifty quid is enough for any little bolshevik.  He can walk back to his
kennel from here.  Tara climbed into the front seat of the Jaguar and
folded her arms defiantly.  Neither of them spoke as Shasa gunned the
motor and pulled away with unnecessary violence, burning blue smoke off
the bac tyres.

Instead of heading back towards the affluent white southern suburbs, he
sent the Jaguar roaring up the lower slopes of Devil's Peak and parked
at one of the viewpoints overlooking the smoking and damaged buildings
of District Six.

What are you doing?  she demanded, as he switched off the engine.

Don't you want to have a look at your handiwork?  he asked coldly.
Surely you are proud of what you have achieved.

She shifted uneasily in her seat.  That wasn't us, she muttered. 'That
was the skollie boys and the gangsters.  My dear Tara, that is how
revolution is supposed to work.

The criminal elements are encouraged to destroy the existing system, to
break down the rule of law and order, and then the leaders step in and
restore order again by shooting the revolutionaries. Haven't you studied
the teachings of your idol Lenin?  It was the fault of the police Yes,
it's always the fault of the police, that's also part of Lenin's plan.
It isn't like that Shut up, he snapped at her.  Just for once shut up
and listen to me.  Up to now I've put up with your Joan of Arc act.  It
was silly and naive but I tolerated it because I loved you.  But when
you start burning down people's homes and throwing bricks and bombs,
then I don't think it's so funny any more.  Don't you dare condescend to
me, she flared.

Look, Tara, look down there at the smoke and flames.

Those are the people you pretend to care for, those are the people who
you say you want to help.  Those are their homes and livelihoods that
you have put the torch to.  I didn't think, I No, you certainly didn't
think.  But I am going to tell you something now and you'd better
remember it.  if you try to destroy this land I love and make its people
suffer, then you become my enemy and I will fight you to the death., She
was silent for a long time, her head turned away from him and then at
last she said softly, Will you take me home, Please?  He took the long
way home over Kloof Nek and along the Atlantic coast, circling around
the far side of Table Mountain to avoid the riot-torn areas and they
never spoke again until he parked at last in front of the Malcomess home
in Newlands.

Perhaps you are right, Tara said.  Perhaps we really are enemies.  She
climbed out of the Jaguar and stood looking down at him as he sat behind
the wheel in the open cockpit.

Goodbye Shasa, she said softly, sadly, and went into the house.

Goodbye, Tara, he whispered.  Goodbye, my beloved enemy!

All the Courtneys were gathered in the front room of Weltevreden.

Sir Garrick and Anna sat on the long sofa which was covered with striped
Regency patterned damask.  They had come down from Natal for Sir Garry's
birthday, and the week before they had all climbed Table Mountain for
the traditional birthday picnic.  it had been a merry occasion and the
Ou Baas, General Ian Christian Smuts, had been with them, as he nearly
always was.

Sir Garry and Lady Anna had planned to return home a few days reviously,
but then the ghastly news of the German invation of Poland had broken
and they had stayed on at Weltevrede.  It was only right that the family
should be together in these desperate days.

The two of them held hands like young lovers as they sat close together.
Since his last birthday, Sir Garry had grown a small silver goatee
beard, perhaps in unconscious imitation of his old friend General smuts.
it increased his scholarly mien and added a little touch of distinction
to his pale aesthetic features.  He leaned slightly forward on the sofa,
inclined towards his wife but with his attentionontheradio cabinet over
which Shasa Courtney was fussing, twiddling the tuning knobs and
frowning at the crackle and whine of static.

The BBC is on the forty-one-metre band, Centaine told him sharply and
glanced at her diamond-studded wristwatch.  Do be quick, cheri, or we
will miss the transmission!

,Ah!  Shasa smiled as the static cleared and the chimes of Big Ben rang
out clearly.  As they died away the announcer spoke.

Twelve hundred hours Greenwich Mean Time and in place of the news we are
broadcasting a statement by Mr Neville Chamberlain the prime minister,,
Turn it up, cheri, Centaine ordered anxiously, and the fateful words,
measured and grave, boomed into the elegant room.

They listened to it all in complete silence.  Sir Garry's beard
quivered, and he took the steel-rimmed spectacles off his nose and
absentmindedly chewed on one of the side frames.  Beside him Anna
wriggled forward onto the edge of the sofa, her thick thighs spread
under their own weight; her face slowly turned a deeper shade of brick
and her grip on her husband's hand tightened as she stared at the radio
in its mahogany cabinet.

Centaine sat in the tall wingbacked chair beside the huge stone
fireplace.  She looked like a young girl in a white summer dress with a
wide yellow ribbon around her slim waist.  She was thirty-nine years
old, but there was not yet a single thread of silver in the dense dark
curls of her hair and her skin was clear, the faint crow's feet at the
corners of her eyes smoothed almost entirely by expensive oils and
creams.  She leaned an elbow on the arm of the chair, and while with one
finger she touched her cheek, she never took her eyes off her son.

Shasa paced the long room, moving from the radio cabinet in its niche
between the long flowered curtains, across the highly polished parquet
floor with its scattering of oriental carpets until he reached the grand
concert piano that stood against the main wall of bookcases at the far
end of the room, then turning and coming back with quick restless paces,
his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed in concentration.

She thought how he looked so much like his father.

Though Michael had been older and not quite so handsome, yet they had
the same quality of grace.  She remembered how she had believed Michael
to be immortal, a young god, and she felt the terror enter her soul
again, that same helpless crippling terror, as she heard the words of
war echo through this beautiful home that she had built as a fortress
against the world.

We are never safe, there is no refuge, she thought.  It is coming again,
and I cannot save those I love.  Shasa and Blaine, they will both go and
I cannot keep them from it.

Last time it was Michael and Papa, this time it's Shasa and Blaine -
and, oh God, I hate it.  I hate war and I hate the evil men who make it.
Please God spare us this time.  You took Michael and Papa, please spare
Shasa and Blaine.  They are all I have, please don't take them from me.
The deep slow voice spoke into the room, and Shasa froze in the centre
of the floor, turning his head to stare over his shoulder at the radio
as the voice said: And so, it is with the deepest regret that I have to
inform you that a state of war now exists between Great Britain and
Germany.  The transmission ended and was replaced by the slow sad
strains of chamber music.

Turn it off, cheri, Centaine said softly, and there was complete silence
in the room.

Nobody moved for many seconds.  Then abruptly Centaine rose to her feet.
She was smiling gaily as she linked her arm through Shasa's.

Lunch is ready everybody, she cried lightly.  in such lovely weather we
will eat on the terrace.  Shasa will open a bottle of champagne, and I
have managed to get the first oysters of the season. She kept up a
bright and cheery monologue until they were all seated at the table and
the wine glasses were filled and then suddenly her act collapsed, and
she turned to Sir Garry with a tortured expression.

We won't have to go in, will we Papa?  General Hertzog promised he would
keep us out.  He says it's an English war.

We won't have to send our men again, not this time, will we Papa?  Sir
Garry reached across and took her hand.  You and I know what the price
was last time,, his voice choked off and he could not mention Michael's
name.  After a moment he gathered himself.  I wish I could give you
comfort, my dear.  I wish I could say what you want to hear.  It's not
fair, said Centaine miserably.  It just isn't fair. 'No, I agree it
isn't fair.  However, there is a monstrous tyranny abroad, a great evil
which will swallow us and our world if we do not resist it., Centaine
sprang up from the table and ran into the house.

Shasa rose quickly to follow her, but Sir Garry restrained him with a
hand on his arm, and ten minutes later Centaine came out again. She had
washed her face and refreshed her make-up and she was smiling, but there
was a feverish glitter in her eyes as she took her place at the head of
the table.

We are all going to be gay, she laughed.  That's an order.

No brooding, no morbid thoughts or words, we are all going to be happy,
she broke off and the laughter wobbled.  She had been about to say, for
it may be the last time we will all be happy together ever again.  On 4
September 1939, the day after Great Britain and France had declared war
on Nazi Germany, General Barry Hertzog rose to address the Parliament of
the Union of South Africa.

It is my sad and painful duty to inform the house that the cabinet of
the Government is divided on the question of this country's position in
the state of war that exists at present between Britain and France on
the one hand and Germany on the other hand.  He paused and replaced his
spectacles to scrutinize the faces of the men who sat beside him on the
government front benches, and then went on gravely.

It is my firm belief that the ultimatum given to Germany by the British
Government concerning the occupation of Poland by the German Wehrmacht
is not binding upon this country, nor does the German occupation of
Poland constitute a threat to the security of the Union of South Africa,
A great roar of approval went up from the opposition benches and Dr
Daniel Malan, froglike and bespectacled, smiled benignly, while on the
government benches Smuts and his supporters registered their protest as
loudly.

It is rather a local matter between Germany and Poland, Hertzog went on,
and it gives this country no cause to join in the declaration of war.
Accordingly I propose that South Africa remain neutral; that it cede the
naval base at Simonstown to Britain, but in all other respects continue
its present relationship with all the belligerents as if no war were
being waged.  The ageing prime minister was a fluent and persuasive
speaker and as he continued enlarging his case for neutrality, Blaine
Malcomess on the front bench of the government side was covertly
watching the reaction of the Smuts supporters around him.

He knew which of them were as firmly committed as himself and the Ou
Baas to stand by Britain, and which of them were wavering and uncertain.
As Hertzog continued speaking, he sensed the swing of emotions towards
the old general's side, and with a sense of disbelief and rising shame
he foresaw the ignominious decision that the House was about to take.
His anger rose to keep pace with his shame.

General Hertzog was still speaking, and Blaine was now only listening
with half an ear as he scribbled a note to pass across to the Ou Baas,
when abruptly his full attention flashed back to what the prime minister
was saying.

Finally, coming to the ethics of the German invasion of Poland, a case
could very well be made out for the justification of this action if it
were taken into consideration that the security of the German state
Blaine felt his spirits soar, and he sensed rather than saw the sudden
shock and revulsion of feeling amongst those who had begun to waver
towards the side of neutrality.

He has gone too far, Blaine wrote on a fresh sheet of his notepad.  He
is defending Hitler's aggression.  We have won.  He tore the sheet from
the pad and handed it to General Smuts, who read it and nodded slightly,
and rose to his feet to put the other side of the argument.

Britain is our friend, our oldest and our best friend.  We must stand by
her to the end, he said in his high-pitched voice, rolling his r's in
his distinctive NIalmesbury bray.

Far from being a local dispute, the Polish invasion has consequences
that reach far beyond Danzig and the corridor, into the hearts and souls
of free men in every corner of the globe.  When, at last, the motion,
for war or neutrality, was put to the vote, Dr Malan's Nationalists
voted as a block for neutrality, and one third of Hertzog's own party,
together with three of his cabinet ministers, followed his lead.

However, Smuts and his own men, Reitz and Malcomess and Stuttaford and
the others, carried the day and by the slim margin of eighty votes to
sixty-seven, South Africa declared war on Nazi Germany.

in a last desperate bid to thwart the declaration, General Hertzog
called for dissolution of Parliament and a general election, but the
governor-general, Sir Patrick Duncan, refused the request and instead
accepted the old general's resignation and invited General Jan Christian
Smuts to form a new government and take the nation to war.

The Ou Baas won't let me go, Blaine said bitterly, and Centaine ran to
him across the bedroom of their cottage and stood on tiptoe to embrace
him.

Oh thank God, Blaine my darling.  I prayed and prayed and He answered
me.  I couldn't bear to lose you both.  Not you and Shasa, I could never
have survived it., I'm not proud that I will stay at home while others
go., You have fought once, bravely, unselfishly, she told him.

You are a thousand times more valuable here than lying dead on a
battlefield in a foreign land.  The Ou Baas has convinced me of that, he
sighed.  With an arm around her waist he led her through to the
sittingroom, and she knew that tonight for once they would not make
love.  His distress was too great.  She knew that tonight he wanted only
to talk, and it was her duty to listen to him while he poured out his
doubts and fears and regrets.

They came out in a jumble, without logical sequence, and she sat close
to him so he could touch her merely by stretching out a hand as she
listened quietly.

Our position is so precarious, how can we wage a war when we command a
majority of only thirteen votes in the House, while against us we have a
solid opposition who hate the Ou Baas and what they call his English
war?  They will fight us every step of the way, while the people also
are deeply divided against us, We have within our own borders an enemy
as vicious as the Nazis, the Ossewa Brandwag and the Black Shirts and
the Grey Shirts, the Deutsche Bund in South West Africa, enemies within
and without.  She poured him another whisky and soda and brought him the
Stuart crystal tumbler.  It was his second drink that evening and she
had never before seen him take more than one.

Pirow has betrayed us.  He is one of them now, but for all those years
he has been in a position of trust.  Oswald Pirow had been the Minister
of Defence under the Hertzog govemtment.  We gave him a defence budget
of fifty-six million and a brief to built up an affective modern army,
but instead he treacherously gave us a paper army.  We believed his
reports and his assurances, but now that he has gone we find ourselves
without modern weapons, a handful of obsolete tanks and venerable
aircraft and an army of fewer than fifteen hundred in the permanent
force.  Pirow refused to arm the nation for a war which he and Hertzog
were determined we would never fight.  The night wore on but both of
them were too strung up to think of sleeping, and when he refused a
third whisky she went through to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and
he followed her.  He stood behind her with his arms around her waist
while they waited for the water to come to the boil.

General Smuts has given me the Interior Ministry in the new cabinet. One
of the reasons he chose me was that I have already chaired the
commission of enquiry into the Ossewa Brandwag and the other subversive
organizations.

It will be one of my major concerns to suppress their efforts to disrupt
our preparations for war.  The Ou Baas himself has taken the Ministry of
Defence, and he has already promised Britain an army of fifty thousand
volunteers ready to fight anywhere in Africa.  They took the coffee tray
through to the sitting-room and as Centaine poured, the telephone rang,
shrill and shocking in the silent cottage.  She started and spilled
steaming coffee over the tray.

What time is it, Blaine?  Ten minutes to one.  I won't answer it, let it
ring, Centaine shook her head, staring at the insistent instrument, but
he stood up.

Only Doris knows I'm here, he said.  I had to let her know in case, He
didn't have to explain further.  Doris was his secretary, the only one
in their confidence, and of course she had to know where to find him.
Centaine picked up the telephone.

Mrs Courtney speaking.  She listened for a moment.  Yes, Doris, he is
here.  She handed the telephone to Blaine and turned away.  He listened
for a few moments, then said quietly, Thank you, Doris, I'll be there in
twenty minutes.  He hung up and looked up at Centaine.

I'm sorry, Centaine.  I'll fetch your coat.  She held it for him and he
slipped his arms into the sleeves and turned to face her, buttoning it
as he said, It's Isabella.  He saw her surprise and went on, The doctor
is with her.

They need me.  Doris wouldn't say more, but it sounds serious. After
Blaine had gone, she took the coffee pot and cups through to the
kitchen, and rinsed them in the sink.  Seldom had she felt so lonely.
The cottage was silent and cold and she knew she could not sleep.  She
went back into the lounge and put a gramophone record on the turntable.

it was an aria from Verdi's Aida, always one of her favourites, and as
she sat and listened to it the memories it aroused came stealing back
out of the past, Michael and Mort Homme and the other long-ago war, and
her melancholy swamped her.

She slept at last, sitting in the armchair with her legs curled up under
her, and the telephone woke her with a start.  She reached for it before
she was properly awake.

Blaine!  She recognized his voice instantly.  What time is it? 'It's
four o'clock, a few minutes after.  Is something wrong, Blame? She came
fully awake.

,Isabella, he said.  She is asking for you.  For me?  Centaine was
confused.

She wants you to come here.  I can't, Blaine.  That's not possible, you
know that.  She's dying, Centaine.  The doctor says she won't last out
the day.  Oh God, Blaine, I'm so sorry.  And with wonder at herself, she
realized she truly was.  Poor Isabella Will you come?  Do you want me
to, Blaine?  It is her last request.  If we refuse it, our guilt will be
so much harder to bear.  I'll come, she said and hung up.

She took only a few minutes to bathe her face and change and put on
light make-up.  She drove through the almost deserted streets, and
Blaine's big gabled home was the only one in Newlands Avenue with lights
burning.

He met her at the mahogany double front doors and he did not embrace
her, but said simply, Thank you, Centaine.  Only then she saw his
daughter standing in the hall behind him.

Hello, Tara, she greeted her.  The girl had been weeping.

Her big grey eyes were puffy and swollen and rimmed with red, and her
face was so pale that her dark auburn hair seemed to burn like a bush
fire.  I'm so sorry to hear about your mother."

No, you aren't.  Tara stared at her with a flat hostile expression which
suddenly wavered and cracked.  She sobbed and ran down the passageway. A
door slammed in the back of the house.

She's very upset, Blaine said.  I apologize for her., I understand,
Centaine answered.  I deserve at least part of that.  He shook his head
to deny it, but said simply, Please come with me.  They climbed the
circular staircase side by side and Centaine asked softly, 'What is it,
Blaine?  ,A degeneration of the spine and nervous system, a process that
has been going on slowly over the years.  Now there is pneumonia, and
she can no longer resist.  Pain?  Centaine asked.

Yes, he replied.  She has always had pain, more than the average person
could bear.  They went down the wide carpeted passageway and Blaine
tapped on the door at the end and then opened it.

Come in, please.  The room was large and furnished in cool restful
greens and blues.  The curtains were closed and a night lamp burned on
the bedside table.  The man standing beside the bed was clearly a
doctor.  Blaine led Centaine to the four-poster bed and though she had
tried to prepare herself, still she started when she saw the figure that
lay upon the banked pillows.

She remembered Isabella Malcomess serene and gentle beauty.  Now a
death's head stared at her from sunken eye-sockets, and the fixed grin
of yellowish teeth, the rictus of shrunken lips, was somehow obscene.
The effect was heightened by the contrast of thick auburn hair which
formed a cloud about the ravaged head.

It was kind of you to come.  Centaine had to lean closer to the bed to
hear the thin voice.

I came as soon as I heard you wanted me., The doctor intervened quietly.
You may stay only a few minutes, Mrs Malcomess must rest. But Isabella
fluttered her hand impatiently, and Centaine saw that it was a bird's
claw of fragile bones covered with skin the colour of tallow and a ropy
network of blue veins.

I wish to speak in private, she whispered.  Please leave us, Doctor.
Blaine leaned over her to adjust the pillows under her head.

Please don't tire yourself, dear, he said, and his gentleness towards
the dying woman gave Centaine a jealous pang she could not suppress.

Blaine and the doctor left quietly, and closed the door with a click of
the latch.  They were alone together for the first time. Centaine was
overcome by a sense of unreality.  For so many years this woman had
bulked large in her life, her very existence had meant that Centaine had
to suffer all the vile emotions from guilt to jealousy, from anger to
hatred.

But now that she stood beside her deathbed, they had all evaporated. All
she felt was a vast sense of pity.

Come nearer, Centaine, Isabella whispered, beckoning her with another
feeble flutter of her wasted hand.  Talking is such an effort.
Impulsively Centaine went down on her knees beside the bed so that their
eyes were only inches apart.  She felt a terrible need to repent for all
the unhappiness she had caused and to ask for Isabella's forgiveness,
but Isabella spoke first.

I told Blaine that I wanted to make my peace with you, Centaine. I told
him I understood that the two of you had not been able to help falling
in love, and that I realized you had tried to spare me as much as
possible.  I told him I knew that you were never vindictive, that
although you could have taken him away, you never inflicted that final
humiliation upon me, that although I was no longer a woman, you allowed
me to retain the last shreds of my dignity.  Centaine felt the pity
flood her soul and fill her eyes.  She wanted to take this frail dying
creature in her arms and hold her, but something in Isabella's eyes
prevented her, it was a fierce proud light and Centaine simply bowed her
head and remained silent.

I told Blaine that you had filled his life with the happiness I could
not give him, but despite that and because of your generosity, I was
still able to keep part of him for myself., Oh, Isabella, I don't know
how to tell you, I Centaine's voice choked and Isabella gestured her to
silence.

She seemed to be gathering herself for some enormous effort.  A faint
flush of colour came back into her cheeks and the fierce light in her
eyes flared up.  Her breath quickened and when she spoke again her voice
was stronger, harsher.

I told him all these things to persuade him to bring you here. If he had
guessed what I truly intended, he would not have allowed you to come.
She raised her head from the pillow and her voice became a serpent's
hiss.

Now I can tell you how deeply I have hated you every waking hour of
every long year, how my hatred kept me alive this long so that I could
prevent you from having him as your husband, and now that I am dying
that hatred is magnified a hundred times, She broke off and panted for
breath, as Centaine recoiled before her glare.  She realized that
Isabella was a woman driven to madness by the agony she had endured, by
the long corrosion of hatred and jealousy.

If a dying woman's curse has any force, Isabella spoke again, 'then I
curse you, Centaine Courtney, with my last breath.  May you experience
the same torture you have inflicted upon me, may you know pain as I have
known it.

The day you stand before the altar with my husband I will reach out to
you from beyond the grave, No!  Centaine stumbled to her feet, and
backed towards the door.  Stop it!  Please, stop it!  Isabella laughed,
a shrill and taunting sound.  I curse you, and let my curse blight your
adulterous passion.  I curse every minute the two of you spend together
when I have gone.  I curse whatever seed he places in your womb, I curse
each kiss and touch, I curse you and I curse your brat.  I curse all
your issue.  An eye for an eye, Centaine Courtney.

Heed my words, an eye for an eye!  Centaine ran across the room and
flung herself against the door.  Throwing it open, she ran down the
passage.  Blaine was coming up the staircase at a run.  He tried to hold
her, but she tore herself from his grasp and rushed out through the
front doors to where the Daimler was parked.

She had been driving for many hours, driving fast with the accelerator
pressed to the floorboards, keeping the great seven-litre engine at a
long sustained bellow, sending a tall pale column of dust into the sky
behind her, before she consciously realized she was going back into the
desert, back to the dreaming mystical hills that the little Bushmen
called The Place of all Life'.

it was two months before Centaine came back out of the Kalahari Desert.
For all that time she had thwarted Blaine's efforts to contact her,
refusing to reply to the letters he wrote or the telephone calls he made
to both Abe Abrahams and Dr Twenty-man-jones.

She read the death notices for Isabella Malcomess in the obituary
columns of the newspapers which reached the H'ani Mine only weeks after
publication, but they served to increase her feeling of isolation and
the brooding premonition of disaster and tragedy which Isabella's death
curse had left with her.

She returned to Weltevreden in the end only at Shasa's insistence.

When she arrived her hair was floury with dust from the long journey and
she was darkly tanned by the Kalahari sun, but tired and dispirited
still.

Shasa must have received her telegram and been expecting her.  He must
have heard the Daimler's motor as she came up the avenue to the chateau,
but he was not on the front steps to meet her, and she realized why when
she went into her study.  He turned from the window from where he had
watched her arrival and now he crossed the room to meet her.  He was in
uniform.

She stopped in the doorway, and an icy stillness froze her.

She watched him come towards her, and in her memory she was carried back
down the years and across space to another meeting with a tall and
impossibly handsome young man in the same khaki tunic, with the polished
belt and Sam Browne cross-strap, the peaked cap set at a jaunty angle,
and the airman's wings on his chest.

Thank God, you've come, Mater, Shasa greeted her.  I had to see you
before I left.  When?  she breathed the question, terrified to hear the
answer.  When do you go?  Tomorrow.  Where?  Where are they sending you?
First we go to Roberts Heights, that was the air-force training base in
the Transvaal, for conversion to fighters, and after that wherever they
send us.  Wish me luck, Mater.  She saw that he wore orange flashes on
the epaulettes of his tunic, the insignia of those who had volunteered
to fight beyond the country's borders.

Yes, my darling, I wish you luck,, she said, and knew that her heart
would break to see him go.

The roar of the Rolls-Royce Merlin engine filled his head even through
the earphones of the radio telephone that Shasa wore over his leather
flying helmet.  The cockpit canopy of the Hawker Hurricane fighter
aircraft was open, so the slipstream buffeted his head, but it gave him
an uninterrupted view of the blue African sky around him.  The three
fighters flew in a loose arrowhead formation.  The dun-coloured desert
camouflage could not disguise their beautiful deadly lines.

Shasa led the flight.  His promotion had been rapid.  Command came
naturally to him, he had learned that lesson well from Centaine
Courtney.  It had taken only eighteen months for him to reach the rank
of squadron leader.

He flew in a short-sleeved khaki tunic, khaki shorts and with velskoen
on his bare feet, for the summer heat of Abyssinia was brutal.

Around his waist was belted a Webley service revolver, an archaic weapon
for the pilot of a modern pursuit aircraft, but all of them had taken to
wearing sidearms since the intelligence section had circulated those
obscene photographs.  one of the motorized recce units had overrun a
village in the mountains and found the remains of two South African
pilots who had been forced down and captured by the Abyssinian
irregulars, the shufta, wild hill bandits.  The pilots had been given to
the women of the village.  They had first been emasculated, then flayed
with hot irons and disembowelled so skilfully that they were still
living as their viscera was drawn from them.  Finally, their jaws had
been wedged open with Thorn branches and the women had urinated into
their open mouths until they drowned.  So all the pilots carried
sidearms now, to defend themselves first, and then to make certain they
were never captured alive.

Today the air was clear and bright under a cloudless azure sky, and
visibility was unlimited.  Below and ahead stretched the rugged
Abyssinian highlands, precipitous Ambas, the huge table-topped
mountains, the dark deep gorges between, desert and rock, dry and
sun-bleached to the dun colour of an old lion's scarred hide.

The three fighters bored upwards, striving for height.  They had
scrambled from the dusty forward airstrip at Yirga Alem only minutes
before, in response to a faint but desperate appeal over the field radio
from the advancing infantry, and Shasa wheeled the flight onto the
northern heading and picked out the thin pate thread of the road winding
through the mountains far below them.

immediately he resumed the fighter pilot's scan, his head pivoting and
turning, eyes darting and flicking, never allowed to fix and focus
short, up and around and down in a regular never ceasing motion and he
saw them first.

They were tiny specks, a cloud of black midges against the aching blue.

Popeye flight, this is leader.  Tally ho!  he said into the microphone
of his radio telephone.  Eleven o'clock high!  Ten plus, and they look
like Capronis.  Buster!  Buster!  Buster was the order to go to full
throttle.

I have them!  Dave Abrahams answered immediately.  It was extraordinary
that they had been able to keep together, from the training days at
Roberts Heights through all the vagaries of the East African campaign,
until now they were fighting with Dan Pienaar's South African Corps,
driving the Duke of Aosta's Italians back through the mountains towards
Addis Adaba.

Shasa glanced across at him.  David had brought his Hurricane up on
Shasa's starboard wingtip.  He also had his canopy open, and they
flashed a grin across at each other.  David's large beaky nose had been
burned raw and pink by the sun, and the straps of his helmet hung
unbuckled under his chin.

It was a good feeling to have him on his wing.  Then both of them closed
their canopies in preparation for the attack and looked ahead. Shasa
brought the flight around into a gentle turn, climbing up into the sun,
the classic fighter tactics.

The distant midges resolved swiftly into the familiar silhouettes of
three-engined Caproni bombers.  Shasa counted twelve, four sticks of
three.  They were going for the crossroads at Kerene again, where the
South African advance was bottled into the pass between the soaring
walls of the high Ambas, and at that moment Shasa saw the bombs drop
away from below the leading bombers.

Still under full throttle, the Rolls-Royce engines screamed in protest
as they climbed out, turning into the sun that blinded the Italian
gunners.  Shasa winged over and went down into the attack.

He could see the bomb-bursts now, tiny fountains of pale dust, spurting
up around the crossroads, falling amongst the antlike column of vehicles
in the gut of the hills.  Those poor bastards down there were taking a
pounding, and as they tore down the sky the second flight of Capronis
released their bombloads.  The fat grey eggs, finned at one end, went
down with a deceptively slow wobbling motion, and Shasa twisted his head
around in one last sweep of the heavens, squinting into the sun,
checking that the Italian fighters were not waiting up there, lying in
ambush; but the sky was unsullied blue, and he switched his full
attention back to his gunsight.

He picked out the leading Caproni in the third flight, hoping his attack
would spoil the bomb-layer's aim, and he touched left rudder and rotated
the Hurricane's nose downwards a hair's breadth until the silver and
blue Caproni swam gently in the rose of his gunsight.

Six hundred yards and he held his fire.  He could see the insignia of
the fasces on the fuselage, the bundled rods and axe of imperial Rome.
The heads of the two pilots in the cockpit were inclined earthwards,
watching for the fall of the bombs.  The twin machine-guns in the
revolving power turret were trained aft.

Five hundred yards.  He could see the head and shoulders of the turret
gunner.  The back of his helmet was towards Shasa.  He had not yet
spotted the three deadly machines screaming down onto his starboard
quarter.

Four hundred yards, so close that Shasa could see the scorching of fumes
around the exhaust ports of the Caproni's engines, and the gunner still
was unaware.

Three hundred yards.  The bomb bay of the Caproni began to open under
her swollen belly, pregnant with death.  Now Shasa could make out the
rows of rivet heads along the silver fuselage and on the wide blue
wings.  He settled his grip on the joystick between his knees and
slipped the saf etylock on the firing button, readying the eight
Browning machine-guns in his wings.

Two hundred yards.  He played the rudder bars with his toes and the
gunsight drifted over the Caproni's fuselage.  He stared through it,
frowning slightly with concentration, his lower lip caught between his
front teeth.  Suddenly a line of bright fiery phosphorescent beads
strung across the nose of his Hurricane.  The gunner of the second
Caproni had spotted him at last, and fired a warning burst across his
nose.

One hundred yards.  The gunner and both pilots in the leading Caproni,
alerted by the burst of fire, had looked round and seen him. The turret
gunner was traversing frantically trying to bring his guns to bear.
Through the gunsight Shasa could see his white face, contorted with
terror.

Eighty yards.  Still frowning, Shasa pressed down with his thumb on the
firing-button.  The Hurricane shuddered and slowed to the recoil of
eight Brownings, and Shasa was thrown gently forward against his
shoulder-straps by the deceleration.  Bright streams of tracer,
sparkling like electricity, hosed into the Caproni, and Shasa watched
the strike of shot, directing it with quick subtle touches of his
controls.

The Italian gunner never fired his turret guns.  The Perspex canopy
disintegrated around him and concentrated fire tore him to shreds.  Half
his head and one of his arms were pulled off like those of a careless
child's rag doll, and went spinning and bouncing away in the propeller
wash.  Instantly Shasa switched his aim, picking up the silver coin of
the spinning propeller and the vulnerable wing root of the Caproni in
his sights.  The crisp silhouette of the wing dissolved like wax in a
candle-flame.  Glycerine and fuel vapour poured from the motor in liquid
sheets, and the whole wing pivoted slowly backwards on its root, and
then tore away and spun off, a dead leaf in the slipstream.  The bomber
flipped over on its back and went down in a flat inverted spiral,
unbalanced by the missing wing, weaving irregular zigzag patterns of
smoke and vapour and flame down the sky, and Shasa turned all his
attention to the next formation of bombers.

He brought the Hurricane round still under full throttle, and he pulled
his turn so tightly that the blood drained away from his brain and his
vision turned grey and shadowy.  He tensed his belly muscles and
clenched his jaw to resist the drainage of blood, and levelled out on a
head-on course with the next Caproni in line.

The two aircraft raced together with terrifying speed.  The nose of the
Caproni swelled miraculously to fill all Shasas vision, and he fired
into it at pointblank range and then pulled up his nose and they flashed
past each other so close that he felt the bump and jar of the bomber's
slipstream.  He came round again, hard and furiously, breaking up the
Italian formations, scattering them across the sky, turning and diving
and firing until with that abruptness that is so much part of aerial
combat, they were all gone.

He was alone in an enormously blue and empty sky and he was sweating
with adrenalin reaction.  His grip on the control column was so tight
that it hurt his knuckles.  He throttled back and checked his fuel
gauge.  Those desperate minutes at full throttle had burned over half a
tankful.

Popeye flight, this is leader.  Come in all units.  He spoke into his
microphone and the response was immediate.

Leader, this is three!  That was the third Hurricane, with young Le Roux
at the controls.  I'm down to quarter of a tank.  All right, three,
return independently to base, Shasa ordered.  And then he called again.
Popeye two, this is leader.

Do you read me?  Shasa was searching the sky around him, trying to pick
up David's aircraft, feeling the first prickle of anxiety.

Come in, Popeye two, he repeated, and looked down, searching for smoke
rising from a wrecked aircraft in the broken brown land below. Then his
pulse jumped as David's voice came in clearly through his headphones.

Leader, this is two, I have damage.  David, where the hell are you?
Approximately ten miles east of Kerene crossroads, at eight thousand
feet.  Shasa glanced into the easterly quarter and almost instantly
picked out a thin grey line being swiftly drawn above the blue horizon
towards the south.  it looked like a feather.

David, I see smoke in your area.  Are you on fire?  Affirmative.

I have an engine fire.  I'm coming, David, hold on!  Shasa flung the
Hurricane's wing up in a steep turn and rammed the throttle open to its
stop.

David was a little below him, and he went screaming down the sky.

David, how bad is it!  Roast turkey, David said laconically, and ahead
of him Shasa made out the burning Hurricane.

David had his stricken machine in a steep side slip, so that the flames
were not streaming back over the cockpit canopy but were being blown out
to one side.  He was going down fast, trying to build up speed to the
critical point when the fire would be starved of oxygen and would
extinguish itself spontaneously.

Shasa bore down on him and then eased back his own speed and kept
slightly above and two hundred yards off.  He could see the bullet holes
in the other machine's engine cowling and wing.  One of the Italian
gunners had got in a good burst at David.  The paintwork was blackening
and blistering back down the Hurricane's fuselage, almost as far as the
cockpit, and David was struggling with the Perspex canopy, trying to
open it.

,A jammed canopy and David will cook, Shasa thought, but at that moment
the canopy came free and slid back easily and David looked across at
him.  The air around his head was distorted by the shimmering heat of
invisible flames and a brown patch appeared on the sleeve of David's
tunic as the khaki cotton scorched.

No good!  I'm hitting the silk, Shasa.  He saw David's lips move and his
voice echoed in Shasa's earphones, but before he could reply, David
pulled the helmet from his head and released his shoulder-straps.

He lifted one hand in a farewell salute, and then turned the burning
Hurricane onto its back and fell out of the open cockpit.

He went down with arms and legs spread in an untidy sprawling starfish,
beginning to turn like a cartwheel until suddenly a cascade of silk
burst from his parachute pack, bloomed into a glistening snowy flower
over him and he was jerked backwards, his fall broken, and he drifted
away towards the parched, dung-coloured earth five thousand feet below,
the light breeze carrying his parachute away towards the south.

Shasa throttled his Hurricane back until he was losing height at the
same rate as the descending parachute, and he circled David slowly,
keeping two or three hundred yards separation from his dangling body,
craning his head over the side of his open cockpit, trying to estimate
where David would land, and then glancing anxiously at the fuel gauge

on his instrument panel.  The needle hovered just above the

red line.

David's burning Hurricane smashed into the dusty plain below the soaring
Ambas and exploded in a quick dragon's breath of smoke, and Shasa
surveyed the ground.

Directly below were ridges of iron grey Which peaked into cones of
darker rock.  Between the ridges were stony hollows, rough as a
crocodile's skin, and then, just beyond the last ridge, a softer
smoother valley; as they descended he made out the regular furrows of
primitive cultivation on the gentle slopes of the valley.  David would
come down on or very close to the final ridge.  Shasa's eyes narrowed.
Human habitation!  There was a tiny group of thatched huts at the end of
the valley, and for a moment his spirits rose.  Then he remembered the
photographs, those mutilated and desecrated lumps of human flesh, and
his jaw clenched as he looked across at David, swaying and swinging on
the parachute shrouds.

He banked the Hurricane away, turning and dropping down towards the
valley, and he levelled out at fifty feet above the ground, and flew
back between the rock ridges up the shallow valley.  He roared over the
rude fields of cultivation, scraggly stalks of sorghum standing in
ragged lines, stunted and browned by drought, and then ahead of him he
saw human figures.

A group of men were running down the valley from the village, twenty or
more figures in long dirty grey robes that flapped around their bare
black legs as they ran.  Their hair was teased up into fuzzy dark
bushes, and all of them were armed, some with modern carbines probably
looted from the battlefield, others with the long muzzle-loading
jezails.

As the Hurricane roared low over their heads, three or four of them
stopped running and threw their rifles to their shoulders, pointing them
up at Shasa.  He saw the flash of black powder smoke as they fired, but
he did not feel the bullets hit his aircraft.

Shasa needed no further evidence of their hostile intentions.  The armed
men were streaming along the bottom of the ridge, waving their rifles,
racing to intercept the tiny figure on the floating parachute.

Shasa dropped down again, lined up the running group and at five hundred
yards, opened up with the eight Brownings.

Sheets of tracer and dust flew up around the group of robed figures in a
raging storm, an saw four or five of them picked up and flung down again
by the hail of machine-gun fire.

Then he was forced to climb out to miss the hills at the head of the
valley, and as he came around once more he saw that the shufta had
regrouped and were once again running to intercept David who was at less
than a thousand feet now.  It was clear that he would fall on the slope
of the ridge.

Shasa dropped in for a second attack, but this time the shufta scattered
before the approaching Hurricane and from the cover of the rocks they
turned a furious fusillade on Shasa as he roared over their heads.  His
own machine-gun fire threw up clouds of dust and rock fragments, but did
little execution.

He climbed up and levelled out, swivelling his head to watch David land.
The parachute drifted over the ridge, missing it by only a few feet,
then it hit the down-draught of the back slope and dropped sharply.

He saw David land heavily and tumble head over heels, bumping across the
rocky slope until the parachute jerked him to his feet again.  He
struggled with the tangled shrouds and the billowing folds of silk,
sawing and tipping it, spilling air from it until the parachute
collapsed in a silvery heap and David threw off the harness.

He stood and stared down the slope towards the band of running howling
shufta and Shasa saw him unbuckle the flap of his holster and draw his
service pistol, then shade his eyes and look up at the circling
Hurricane.

Shasa dropped down almost to his level, and as he passed he pointed
urgently down the slope.  David stared up at him without comprehension.
He looked very small and abandoned on the desert hillside, and Shasa was
close enough to see the resignation on his face as he waved farewell to
Shasa and turned to face the savage band coming up to take him.

Shasa fired another burst at the shufta as he roared towards them, and
again they scattered for cover.  They were still half a mile from David;
he had delayed them for precious seconds.  He put the Hurricane into a
maximum-rate turn, his wingtip brushing the thorn scrub of the ridge as
he came around, and the instant he levelled out he let down his
undercarriage.  With landing-wheels hanging he roared back over the spot
where David stood and repeated his urgent signal, pointing down into the
valley.

He saw understanding lighten David's face.  He turned and ran down the
slope with long bounding strides, so that he seemed to float above the
dark rocks, skimming them lightly.

Shasa turned at the bottom end of the valley and lined up on the roughly
ploughed strip of land at the foot of the slope.

He saw that David was already halfway down and that the shufta were
trying to head him off, but then he needed all his wits for the touch
down.

At the last moment he pulled on full flap and held the Hurricane off,
letting her float in, bleeding off speed, back, back, back with the
stick.  Two feet off the ploughed earth she stalled and dropped in with
a crash, bounced and hit again, and bounced, caught a wheel in the rough
and her tail went up.  She almost nosed in, then checked and ran out,
kicking and jolting, throwing Shasa cruelly against his shoulder-straps.

He was down.  He had given himself even odds on getting her down without
breaking her, but here he was down and David had almost reached the
bottom of the ridge.

David wasn't going to make it, he realized almost immediately. Four of
the strongest runners amongst the shufta had pulled ahead, and they were
going to cut David off before he reached the ploughed land. The other
shufta had stopped and were shooting at long range.  Shasa saw bullets
kick up little dust feathers along the slope, some of them fell
frighteningly close to David's racing form.

Shasa turned the Hurricane, standing on one rudder to force her wheels
over the rough furrows.  When her nose was pointed directly at the four
leading shufta, he gave the Hurricane a burst of full throttle and her
tail lifted.  For a moment she was level and her Brownings could bear.
He fired a full burst, and a tornado of shot swept across the field,
scything down the dry sorghum stalks and catching the group of running
men, blowing two of them into sodden bundles of red rags, spinning a
third in a giddy little danse macabre veiled by a curtain of flying
dust.  The remaining bandit threw himself flat to the earth, and the
Hurricane's tail dropped back onto the tail wheel.  The machine-guns
could no longer bear.

David was only a few hundred yards away now, coming on fast, his long
legs flying and Shasa swung the Hurricane to point back down the valley.
The down slope would add speed to their take-off run.

Shasa leaned out of the cockpit.

Come on, Davie, he yelled.  Gold medal this time, boyo!

Something hit the cowling just in front of the canopy with a metallic
twang and then went screaming off in ricochet, leaving a silver smear
through the paintwork.  Shasa looked back.  The shufta were into the
edge of the field, running forward, then stopping to kneel and fire.
Another bullet cracked past his head, forcing him to flinch and duck.

Come on, Davie!  He could hear David's panting breath above the idling
beat of the Rolls-Royce engine, and a bullet slapped into the wing,
punching a neat round hole through the fabric.

Come on, Davie.  Sweat had stained David's tunic and greased his flushed
face.  He reached the Hurricane and jumped up onto the wing. The
aircraft dipped under his weight.

On my lap, Shasa yelled.  Get in!  David scrambled in on top of him,
grunting for breath.

I can't see ahead, Shasa shouted.  You take the stick and the throttle,
I'll work the rudders.  He felt David's hands on the joystick and the
throttle lever, and relinquished both of them.  The engine beat
quickened and the Hurricane began to roll forward.

A touch of left rudder, David called, his voice broken and rough with
fatigue, and Shasa pushed on an inch of left rudder.

In a gale of sound and dust the Rolls-Royce engine built up to full
power, and they were bumping and bouncing over the field, steering an
erratic course as Shasa worked the

rudders blindly, over-correcting to David's instructions.

Shasa could not see ahead.  David was crushing him down in the seat and
totally obscuring his forward vision.  He twisted his head and looked
over the edge of the cockpit, watching the ground begin to blur past him
as their speed built up, responding quickly to David's calls for left or
right rudder.  The dry sorghum stalks whipped against the leading edges
of the wings; the sound they made was almost as ugly as the snap and
flute of bullets passing close.  All the remaining shufta were still
firing at them, but the range was opening rapidly.

The Hurricane hit a hump in the field and it kicked them into the air.
The jolting and thudding ceased abruptly and they were airborne,
climbing away.

We made it!  Shasa shouted, amazed at their achievement, and as the
words left his lips something hit him in the face.

The bullet was a piece of hammered-iron pot-leg, as long and thick as a
man's thumb.  It had been fired from a 1779

Tower musket by a handful of black powder.  It struck the metal frame of
the canopy beside Shasa's head, and the pot leg mushroomed and tumbled
as it ricocheted.  Spinning, it smashed into the side of Shasa's face,
its velocity sharply reduced by the impact on the frame. Striking
side-on, it did not penetrate to the brain.

Shasa did not even lose consciousness.  It felt as though he had been
hit in the outer corner of his left eye with a full swing of a hammer.
His head was knocked across so that it struck the opposite side of the
canopy.

He felt the supra-orbital margin of the frontal bone of his skull
shatter, and hot blood drenched his eye and tatters of his own skin and
flesh hung down over his face like a curtain.

David!  he screamed.  I'm hit!  I can't see!  David twisted around and
looked back at Shasa's face and he cried out in horror. Blood was
spurting and dribbling and splashing, blown by the slipstream into pink
veils that spattered into David's face.

I can't see, Shasa kept repeating.  His face was raw meat running red. I
can't see, oh God Davie, I can't see.  David pulled the silk scarf from
around his own neck and pushed it into one of Shasa's groping hands.

Try and stop the bleeding, he shouted above the roar of the engine, and
Shasa bundled the scarf and pressed it into the hideously ragged wound,
while David gave all his attention to getting them home, keeping low,
skimming the wild brown hills.

It took them fifteen minutes back to the airstrip at Yirga Alem and they
came in at treetop level.  David slammed the Hurricane onto the dusty
strip and taxied tail up to the waiting field ambulance that he had
called for from the air.

They lifted Shasa out of the blood-spattered cockpit.  Then David and a
medical orderly half-carried, half-led him, stumbling like a blind man
to the ambulance.  Within fifteen minutes Shasa was anaesthetized and
laid out on the operating table in the hospital tent and an air-force
doctor was working over him.

When he came round from the anaesthetic, all was dark.

He lifted his hand and touched his face.  it was swathed in bandages,
and panic rose in him.

David" he tried to scream, but it came out in a drunken slur from the
chloroform.

All right, Shasa, I'm here.  The voice was close by and he groped for
him.

Davie!  Davie!  It's all right, Shasa, it's all going to be just fine.
Shasa found his hand and clung to it.  I can't see.  I'm blind., The
bandages, that's all, David assured him.  The doctor is delighted with
you.  You're not lying to me, David?  Shasa pleaded. 'Tell me I'm not
blind.  You are not blind, David whispered, but mercifully Shasa could
not see his face as he said it.  Shasa's desperate grip relaxed slowly,
and after a minute the pain-killers took effect and he drifted back into
unconsciousness.

David sat beside his cot all that night; even in darkness the tent was
hot as an oven.  He wiped the glistening sweat from Shasas neck and
chest, and held his hand when he whimpered in his sleep and muttered,
Mater?  Are you there, Mater?  After midnight the doctor ordered David
to leave him and get some rest, but David refused.

I have to be here when he wakes, I have to be the one to tell him.  I
owe him that much at least.  outside the tent the jackals yipped at the
dawn, and when the first glow struck through the canvas, Shasa woke
again, and asked immediately, David?  I'm here, Shasa. 'It hurts like
hell, Davie, but you told me it's going to be all right.

I remember that, you did tell me, didn't you?  Yes, that's what I said.
We'll be flying together soon, won't we, Davie boy?  The old team,
Courtney and Abrahams back in business?  He waited for the reply, but
when it did not come Shasa's tone changed.  I'm not blind, am I? We will
be flying again?  You are not blind, David said softly.  But you won't
be flying again.  You're going home, Shasa.  Tell me!  Shasa ordered.
Don't try and spare me, that will only make it worse.  All right, I'll
tell you straight.  The bullet burst your left eyeball. The doctor had
to remove it.  Shasa lifted his hand and touched the left side of his
face disbelievingly.

You will still have full vision in the right eye, but you won't be
flying Hurricanes again.  I'm sorry, Shasa.  Yes, Shasa whispered. 'So
am I.  David came to visit him again that evening.  The CO has put you
up for the DFC.  You'll get it, for sure.  That's charming of him, Shasa
said.  Bloody charming.  And they were silent for a while, then David
spoke again.

You saved my life, Shasa.  Oh shut up, Davie, don't be a bore., 'They
are flying you down to the coast tomorrow morning in the transport
Dakota.  You'll be in Cape Town for Christmas.  Give Matty and the baby
a kiss for me, you lucky sod., I'd change places any day, Shasa told
him.  But we'll give you one hell of a party when you come home.  Is
there anything I can do for you, anything you need?  David asked as he
stood up.

As a matter of fact, there is.  Do you think you could get your hands on
a bottle of whisky for me, Davie?  The commander of the submarine
straightened up from the eye-piece of the telescope and nodded to
Manfred De La Rey.

Look, please!  he said, and Manfred took his place at the telescope,
pressing his forehead against the rubber pad and staring into the lens.

They were lying two miles offshore and on the surface it was late
evening.  The sun was setting behind the land.

Do you recognize the landmarks?  the U-boat commander asked in German
and Manfred did not answer immediately, for he found it difficult to
speak.  His emotions were too strong, five years, five long years since
he had set eyes on this beloved coast, and his joy was abundant.  He
knew that he could never be truly happy anywhere but in his Africa.

However, the intervening years had not been unhappy.

There had always been Heidi, and in this last year his son, Lothar,
named after his own father.  The two of them had formed the pivot of his
existence.  And there had also been his work, two tasks running side by
side, each of them demanding and utterly fulfilling.

His law studies had cuhninated in a Master's degree in Roman Dutch Law
and International Law at the University of Berlin.

There had also been his military preparations.  Sometimes these had kept
him from his new family for months at a time, but now he was a highly
trained and dedicated operative of the German Abwehi.  He had acquired
unusual and diverse skills.  He had become a radio operator, and an
expert in explosives and small arms; he had made ten parachute jumps,
five of these in darkness, and he could pilot a light aircraft; he was
versed in cipher and coding, he was a deadly marksman with rifle or
sidearms, an exponent of unarmed combat, a trained assassin, both body
and mind honed to a razor's edge of preparedness.  He had learned the
art of persuasive public speaking and rhetoric, and had studied the
political and military structures of South Africa until he knew all the
vulnerable areas and how to exploit them.  He was now ready in every way
that he and his masters could foresee for the task that lay ahead of
him.  Not one man in a million, he knew, would ever have an opportunity
such as he was being given, the opportunity to mould history and to turn
the detestable order of the world upon its head. Greatness had been
thrust upon him, and he knew himself equal to that challenge.

Yes, he replied in German to the U-boat commander, I recognize the
landmarks.  He had spent one happy, carefree summer holiday on this
sparsely populated stretch of the southeastern coast of Africa.  Here
Roelf Stander's family owned five thousand hectares, and five miles of
this fore-shore.

Manfred and Roelf had fished from that rocky headland, pulling the big
silver kabeljou from the creaming green surf that broke over the black
boulders.  They had climbed that low range of hills to hunt the speckled
bushbuck amongst the flowering ericas and magnificent blooms of the wild
protea shrubs.  In that quiet cove with its rind of smooth yellow sand
they had swum naked, and afterwards lain on the beach to discuss the
future and fantasize about their

own particular roles in it.  There below the hills, gleaming in the last
rays of the sun, stood the whitewashed walls of the small holiday
cottage in which they had lived.

Yes,he repeated.  This is the rendezvous.  "We will wait for the agreed
time, the U-boat commander said, and gave the order to lower the
periscope.

Still two miles offshore, the submarine lay twenty metres below the
surface, suspended in the dark waters with its engines stopped, while
above it the sun sank below the horizon and night fell over the African
mainland.  Manfred went down the narrow passageway to the tiny cubicle
he shared with two of the U-boat's junior officers and began his final
preparations for landing.

In the weeks since they had left Bremerhaven, he had come to hate this
sinister craft.  He hated the cramped quarters and the close intimate
proximity of other men, he hated the motion an the ceaseless vibration
of the engines.  He had never become accustomed to the knowledge that he
was locked in an iron box deep under the cold oceanic waters, and he
hated the stink of diesel and oil and the reek of the other men trapped
down here with him.  He longed with all his soul for the clean night air
in his lungs and the hot African sun on his face.

Quickly he stripped off the white rollneck jersey and the navy blue
peajacket and dressed instead in the worn and shapeless clothing of a
country Afrikaner, a bywoner or poor white squatter.  He was still
darkly tanned from his training in the mountains and he had allowed his
hair to grow out over his collar and his beard to become thick and
curly, adding many years to his age.  He looked at himself now in the
small mirror on the bulkhead above his bunk.

They will never recognize me, he said aloud.  Not even own family.  He
had dyed his hair and beard black, the same colour as his eyebrows, and
his nose was thickened and twisted.  It had never set properly after the
American Cyrus Lomax had broken it in the Olympic final, and one eyebrow
was lumpy and scarred.  He looked entirely different from the young,
clean-cut, blond athlete who had sailed from Africa five years before.
He pulled the stained felt hat low over his eyes and nodded at his image
with satisfaction, then turned from the mirror and went down on his
knees to reach the equipment that had been stowed beneath his bunk.

It was packed in rubber waterproofed containers and sealed with tape. He
checked off each numbered package on his list, and a German seaman
carried them away and stacked them at the foot of the ladder in the
submarine's conning tower.

Manfred checked his watch.  There was just time for a quick meal and
then he would be ready.  The bosun called him from the galley, and with
a mouth still full of bread and sausage, Manfred hurried to the U-boat's
control room.

There are lights ashore.  The captain stood up from the periscope and
gestured Manfred to take his place.

It was fully dark on the surface and through the lens Manfred picked out
immediately the three beacon fires, one on each horn of the headlands
and one on the sheltered beach.

That is the correct recognition signal, Captain.  He straightened up and
nodded.  We should surface now and make the reply.  To the thunder and
crackle of compressed air purging the diving tanks, the U-boat rose up
like Leviathan through the dark depths and burst out through the
surface.

While the submarine still wallowed in her own froth, the captain and
Manfred climbed the ladder and went out onto the bridge.  The night air
was cool and sweet, and Manfred drew deep breaths of it as he peered
through his binoculars at the black loom of the shore.

The captain gave a quiet order to the signals yeoman, and he worked the
handle of the Addis lamp, clattering out quick beams of yellow light
across the dark silver-flecked ocean, spelling out the Morse letters W
S', the abbreviation of White Sword'.  After a short pause one of the
beacon fires on the headland was snuffed out, and a few minutes later
the second fire was extinguished, leaving only the one on the beach
still burning.

That is the correct response, Manfred grunted.  Please have my equipment
brought on deck, Captain.  They waited almost half an hour until out of
the darkness close at hand a voice hailed them.

White Sword?  Come alongside, Manfred called back in Afrikaans, and a
small open fishing-boat crept towards them on its long oars.

Quickly Manfred shook hands with the U-boat captain and gave him the
Nazi salute, Heil Hitler!  Then he scrambled down onto the lower deck.
The moment the wooden hull of the fishing-boat touched, Manfred leapt
lightly across and balanced easily on the central thwart.

The rower in the forward seat rose to greet him.

Manie, is that you?  Roelf!  Manfred embraced him briefly. 'It's so good
to see you!  Let's get my equipment aboard.  The rubber canisters were
swung across by the U-boat's deck crew and stowed in the bottom of the
fishing-boat, and at once they pushed off.  Manfred took the oar beside
Roelf and they gave way swiftly, then rested on their oars to watch the
black submarine shark below the surface and disappear in a rash of white
water.

Once again they began pulling towards the shore, and Manfred asked
softly, Who are the others?  He indicated the three other oarsmen with
his chin.

All our people, local farmers from the district.  I've known them since
I was a child.  They are completely trustworthy., They did not speak
again until they had run the boat in through the low surf to the beach,
dragged it up the sand and hidden it amongst the salt bush.

I will fetch the truck, Roelf muttered, and a few minutes later the
yellow headlights came down the rough track to the beach.  Roelf parked
the battered green four-tormer beside the fishing-boat.

The three farmers helped them transfer Manfred's equipment to the back
of the truck and cover the canisters with bales of dried lucerne and a
tattered old tarpaulin.  Then they climbed up on top of the load while
Manfred took the passenger seat in the cab.

Tell me all the news of my family, first, Manfred burst out.  We have
plenty of time for business later.  Uncle Tromp is just the same, What a
sermon that man can preach!  Sarie and I go every Sunday How is Sarah?
Manfred demanded.  And the baby?  You are out of date, Roelf laughed.
Three babies now.

Two boys and a little girl of three months.  You'll meet them all soon.
One at a time they dropped the other men off along the winding dirt road
with a word of thanks and a quick handshake, until at last they were
alone.  A few miles further on they reached the main coastal road near
the village of Riversdale, and turned westwards towards Cape Town two
hundred miles away, and ran on through the night, stopping only to
refuel the truck at the little town of Swellendarn and to spell each
other at the wheel of the truck.

Four hours later they crossed the mountains and went down the steep
narrow pass to the wide littoral.  They stopped again a few miles
outside Stellenbosch, at one of the cooperative winery companies.
Although it was three o'clock in the morning, the manager was waiting
for them and he helped them unload the rubber canisters and carry them
down into the cellar.

This is Sakkie Van Vuuren, Roelf introduced the manager.  He is a good
friend, and he has prepared a safe place for your equipment.  He led
them to the rear of the cellar, to the last row of wooden casks. These
were massive oak containers each holding a thousand gallons of immature
red wine, but the manager thumped the palm of his hand against one of
them and when it gave out a hollow sound, he smiled.

I did the work myself, he said and opened the front of the cask. It was
hinged like a door and the cask beyond was empty.  Nobody will ever find
the goods here., They packed the rubber canisters into the cask and
closed the hinged lid.  It was indistinguishable from any other of the
massive wine-filled casks in the row.

We will be ready to move when the time is ripe, the winemaker told
Manfred.  When will it be?  Soon, my friend, Manfred promised him.  Very
soon, and he and Roelf drove on into the village of Stellenbosch.

It's good to be home.  You will only stay here tonight, Manie, Roelf
told him.

Even with your new black beard and broken nose, you are too well-known.
You will be recognized.  He parked the truck in the yard of a secondhand
car dealer down near the railway tracks and left the key under the floor
mat.  Then the two of them walked the last mile, through the deserted
streets to Roelf's home, a cottage in a row of small thatched cottages.
Roelf let them in through the back door into the kitchen, and a familiar
figure rose up from his seat at the kitchen table to greet them.

Uncle Tromp!  Manfred cried.  The old man held open his arms, and
Manfred ran into his embrace.

What a terrible ruffian you are with that beard, Uncle Tromp laughed.
And I see the American did a permanent job on your nose. Manfred looked
over Uncle Tromp's shoulder and there was a woman standing in the
doorway of the kitchen.

That was what misled him, a woman, not a girl.  Her face was marked by a
kind of sad wisdom, and her expression was pinched and without joy.

Sarah?  Manfred left Uncle Tromp and went towards her.

How are you, my little sister?  I was never your little sister, Manfred,
she said.  But I am very well, thank you.  She made no effort to embrace
him and Manfred was clearly disturbed by the coolness of her welcome.

Are you happy, Sarah?  I have a fine man and three beautiful babies, she
said, and looked at Roeff.

You will be hungry now, she told him.  Sit down.  You can talk while I
make your breakfast.  The three men seated themselves at the kitchen
table and every once in a while Manfred glanced surreptitiously at Sarah
as she worked over the stove, and his expression was troubled, ridden by
old memories and guilt.  Then he gathered himself and concentrated once
more on what the others were saying.

The news is all good, the British smashed and broken at Dunkirk, France
has fallen and the Netherlands.  The German U-boats are winning the
battle of the Atlantic and even the Italians are victorious in North
Africa- I did not know you were one of us, Uncle Tromp, Manfred cut in
on the discussion.

Yes, my son.  I am a patriot as you are.  The Ossewa Brandwag is forty
thousand strong now.  Forty thousand picked men in positions of power
and authority, while Jannie Smuts has sent one hundred and sixty
thousand of the English-lovers with their little orange tabs on their
shoulders out of the country.  He has put himself at our mercy.  Our
leaders know of your arrival, Manie, Roelf told him.

They know that you bring a message from the Fahrer himself, and they are
eager to meet you.  Will you arrange a meeting, Manfred asked, as soon
as possible?  There is much work to do.  Glorious work to do.  Sarah
Stander stood quietly at the kitchen stove, breaking eggs into the
frying pan, turning the chops under the grill.

She did not look round or draw attention to herself, but she thought:
You have come to bring sadness and suffering into my life again, Manfred
De La Rey.  With your every word and look and gesture you open the
wounds I thought had healed.

You have come to destroy what little life has left me.  Roelf will
follow you blindly into folly.  You come to threaten my husband and my
babies, And her hatred of him was made stronger and more venomous as it
fed on the corpse of the love that he had murdered.

Manfred travelled alone.  There was no control of personal movement,
there were no roadblocks, police searches or demands for identification
papers.  South Africa was so far from the main war centres that there
were not even significant shortages of consumer goods, apart from petrol
rationing and a ban on the milling of white flour, therefore no need for
ration books or other documentation existed.

Carrying a small valise, Manfred merely purchased a second-class railway
ticket for Bloemfontein, the capital town of the Orange Free State
province, and he shared a compartment with five other travellers on the
five hundred mile journey.

Ironically, the meeting to subvert the elected government of the nation
took place in the provincial government building at the foot of
Artillery Hill.  When Manfred entered the imposing administrator's
office, he was reminded how wide was the influence of their secret
organization.

The commander of the OB came to meet him at the door.

He had changed little since he had administered the bloodoath to Manfred
in that midnight torchlit ceremony.  Still paunchy and craggy-featured,
he was now dressed in a sombre double-breasted civilian suit.  He
greeted Manfred warmly, clasping his hand and patting his shoulder,
smiling broadly.

I have been expecting you, brother, but first let me congratulate you on
your achievements since last we met, and the magnificent work you have
accomplished so far., He led Manfred into the room and introduced him to
the five other men seated at the long table.

All of us have taken the blood oath.  You may speak freely, he told
Manfred who knew now that he was addressing the highest council of the
brotherhood.

He sat at the bottom of the table facing the commander and gathered his
thoughts for a moment before beginning.

Gentlemen, I bring you personal greetings from the Fithrer of the German
people, Adolf Hitler.  He has asked me to assure you of the close
friendship that has always existed between the Afrikaner and the German
nation, and to tell you that he is ready to support us in every possible
way in our struggle to win back what is rightfully ours, to regain for
the Afrikaner the land that belongs to him by right of birth and
conquest.  Manfred spoke forcefully and logically.

He had prepared this address with the help of the experts of the German
propaganda department and had rehearsed it until his delivery was
perfect; he could judge his success by the rapt expressions of the men
listening to him.

The Fuhrer is fully aware that this country has been stripped of almost
all men of military age who have sympathy with the Smuts government and
the British.  Almost one hundred and sixty thousand men have been sent
north to serve beyond our borders.  This makes the task easier.  Smuts
has called in all weapons in private hands, one of the men interrupted
him.  He has taken the sporting rifles and shotguns, even the memorial
cannons from the town squares.  There will be no rising without weapons.
You have seen to the centre of the problem, Manfred agreed.  To succeed
we need money and weapons.  We will get those.  The Germans will send
them to us?  No.  Manfred shook his head.  This has been considered and
rejected.  The distance is too great, the difficulty of landing great
quantities of arms on an inhospitable coast is not acceptable and the
ports are well guarded. However, immediately we have control of the
ports, supplies of heavy arms will be rushed to us by U-boats of the
German navy, and in return we will throw open our harbours to the German
Uboats.  We will deny the Cape route to the British.  Then where will we
get the arms we need for the rising?  From Jannie Smuts, Manfred told
them, and they stirred uncomfortably and glanced at one another
doubtfully.

With your approval, naturally, I will recruit and train a small elite
striking force of our stormjagters.  We will raid the government arms
and ammunition dumps and seize what we need, the same with money.

We will take it from the banks.  The enormity of the concept, the
boldness and sweep of it, amazed them.  They stared in silence and
Manfred went on.

We will act swiftly and ruthlessly, seize the arms and distribute them.
Then at a given signal we will rise, forty thousand patriots, to seize
all the reins of power, the police and the army, the communications
system, the railways, the harbours.  In all of these we have our people
already in place.

All of it will be done at the prearranged signal., What will that signal
be?  asked the commander of the O B.

It will be something that will turn the entire country on its head,
something staggering but it is too early to speak of it.  It is
necessary only to say that the signal has been chosen and the man who
will give the signal., Manfred looked at him steadily, seriously.  I
will have that honour.  I have trained for the task, and I will do it
alone and unaided.

After that it will only remain for you to take up the reins, to swing
our support to the side of the victorious German army, and to lead our
people to the greatness that has been denied them by our enemies.  He
was silent then as he studied their expressions, and he saw the
patriotic fervour on their faces and the new light in their eyes.

Gentlemen, do I have your approval to proceed?  he asked, and the
commander looked at each of them in turn, and received a curt nod of the
head.

He turned back to Manfred.  You have our approval and our blessing.  I
will see that you have the support and assistance of every single member
of the brotherhood.  Thank you, gentlemen, Manfred said quietly.  And
now if I may give you the words of Adolf Hitler himself from the great
book Mein Kampf, "Almighty God, bless our arms when the time is ripe. Be
just as Thou has always been.

judge now whether we be deserving of freedom.  Lord, bless our battle."

Amen!  they cried, leaping to their feet and giving the O B salute of
clenched fist across the chest.  Amen!  The green Jaguar was parked in
the open, beside the road where it skirted the top of the cliff.  The
vehicle looked abandoned, as though it had stood here for days and
weeks.

Blaine Malcomess parked his Bentley behind it and walked to the cliff's
edge.  He had never been here before, but Centaine had described the
cove to him and how to find the pathway.  He leaned out now and looked
down the cliff.  It was very steep but not sheer; he could make out the
path zigzagging down three hundred feet to Smitswinkel Bay, and at the
bottom he saw the roofs of three or four rude huts strung out along the
curve of the bay, just as Centaine had described.

He shrugged out of his jacket and threw it onto the front seat of the
Bentley.  The climb down the pathway would be warm work.  He locked the
door of the car and set off down the cliff path.  He had come, not only
because Centaine had pleaded with him to do so, but because of his own
affection and pride and sense of responsibility towards Shasa Courtney.

At various times in the past he had anticipated that Shasa would be
either his stepson or his son-in-law.  As he climbed down the pathway he
felt again the deep regret, no, more than regret, the deep sorrow, that
neither expectation had been fulfilled thus far.

He and Centaine had not married, and Isabella had been dead for almost
three years now.  He remembered how Centaine had fled from him on the
night Isabella died, and how

for many months afterwards she had avoided him, frustrating all his
efforts to find her.  Something terrible had happened that night at
Isabella's deathbed.  Even after they had been reconciled, Centaine
would never talk about it, never even hint at what had taken place
between her and the dying woman.  He hated himself for having put
Centaine in Isabella's power.  He should never have trusted her, for the
damage she had done had never healed.  It had taken almost a year of
patience and gentleness from Blaine before Centaine had recovered from
it sufficiently to take up again the role of lover and protectress which
she had so revelled in before.

However, she would not even discuss with him the subject of marriage,
and became agitated and overwrought when he tried to insist. It was
almost as if Isabella were still alive, as if she could from her
long-cold grave assert some malevolent power over them.  There was
nothing in life he wanted more than to have Centaine Courtney as his
lawful wife, his wife in the eyes of God and all the world, but he was
coming to doubt it would ever be so.

Please Blaine, don't ask me now.  I cannot, I just cannot talk about it.
No, I can't tell you why.  We have been so happy just the way we are for
so many years.  I can't take the chance of mining that happiness.  I am
asking you to be my wife.  I'm asking you to confirm and cement our
love, not to ruin it.  Please, Blaine.  Leave it now. Not now.  When,
Centaine, tell me when?  I don't know.  I honestly don't know, my
darling.  I only know I love you so.  Then there were Shasa and Tara.
They were like two lost souls groping for each other in darkness.  He
knew how desperately they needed each other, he had recognized it from
the very beginning, and how close they had come to linking hands.  But
always they failed to make that last vital contact, and drifted, pining,
apart.  There seemed to be no reason for it, other than pride and
pigheadedness, and without each other they were diminishing, neither of
them able to fulfill their great promise, to take full advantage of all
the rare blessings that had been bestowed upon them at birth.

TWo beautiful, talented young people, full of strength and energy,
frittering it all away in a search for something that never existed,
wasting it on impossible dreams or burning it up in despair and
despondency.

I cannot let it happen, he told himself with determination. 'Even if
they hate me for it, I have to prevent it.  He reached the foot of the
path and paused to look around.

He did not need to rest, for although the descent had been arduous and
although he was almost fifty years old, he was harder and fitter than
most men fifteen years younger.

Smitswinkel Bay was enclosed by a crescent of tall cliffs; only its far
end was open to the wider expanse of False Bay.

Protected on all sides, the water was lake-calm and so clear he could
follow the stems of the kelp plants down thirty feet to where they were
anchored on the bottom.  It was a delightful hidden place and he took a
few moments longer to appreciate its tranquil beauty.

There were four shacks built mostly of driftwood, each of them widely
separated from the others, perched upon the rocks above the narrow
beach.  Three were deserted, their windows boarded up.  The last one in
the line was the one he wanted, and he set off along the beach towards
it.

As he drew closer he saw the windows were open, but the curtains, faded
and rotted by salt air, were drawn.  There were crayfish nets hanging
over the railing of the stoep and a pair of oars and a cane fishing-rod
propped against one wall.  A dinghy was drawn up on the beach above the
highwater mark.

Blaine climbed the short flight of stone steps and crossed the stoep to
the front door.  It was open and he stepped into the single room.

The small Devon stove on the far wall was cold, and a frying pan stood
on it, greasy with congealed leftovers.  Dirty plates and mugs cluttered
the central table, and a column of black ants was climbing one leg to
reach them.  The wooden floor of the shack was unswept, gritty with
beach sand.  There were two bunks set against the side wall, opposite
the window.  The bare boards of the upper bunk were without a mattress,
but in the lower bunk was a jumble

along

of grey blankets and a hard coir mattress with a stained and torn cover.
On top of it all lay Shasa Courtney.

It was a few minutes before noon and he was still asleep.

An almost empty bottle of whisky and a tumbler stood on the sandy floor
within reach of Shasa's dangling arm.  He wore only a pair of old rugby
shorts and his body was burned to the colour of oiled mahogany, a dark
beachcomber's tan; the hair on his arms was sun bleached to gold, but on
his chest it remained dark and curly.  It was obvious that he had not
shaved in many days and his hair was long and unkempt on the dirty
pillow.  Yet the deep tan covered all the more obvious signs of
debauchery.

He slept quietly, no sign on his face of the turmoil which must have
driven him from Weltevreden to this squalid shack.  He was still in all
respects but one a magnificentlooking young man, that was why the left
eye was even more shocking.  The top ridge of the eye-socket was
depressed on the outside corner where the bone had shattered; the scar
through his dark eyebrow was shiny white and ridged.  The empty
eye-socket was sunken, and the eyelids drooped apart, exposing wet red
tissue in the gap between his thick dark lashes.

It was impossible to look on the hideous injury without feeling pity,
and it took Blaine a few seconds to steel himself to what he had to do.

Shasa!  He made his voice harsh.  Shasa groaned softly and the lid of
his empty eye twitched.

Wake up, man.  Blaine went to the bunk and shook his shoulder. 'Wake up.
We've got some talking to do.  Go away, Shasa mumbled, not yet awake. Go
away and leave me alone.  Wake up, damn you!  Shasa's good eye flickered
open and he peered up at Blaine blearily.  His eye focused and his
expression altered.

What the hell are you doing here?  He rolled his head away, hiding the
bad eye as he groped amongst the tangled bedclothes until he found a
scrap of black cloth on a black elastic band.  With his face still
averted, he fitted the patch over the damaged eye and looped the band
over his head k before he turned back to look at Blaine again. The
eye-patch gave him a piratical panache, and in some perverse way
highlighted his good looks.

Got to pump ship, he blurted and tottered out onto the stoep.

While he was away Blaine dusted one of the stools and set it against the
wall.  He sat down on it, leaned back, and lit one of his long black
cheroots.

Shasa came back into the shack, pulling up the front of his rugby
shorts, and sat down on the edge of the bunk, holding his head with both
hands.  My mouth tastes like a polecat pissed in it, he muttered, and he
reached down for the bottle between his feet and poured what remained of
the whisky into the glass, licked the last drop from the neck and
trundled the empty bottle across the floor in the general direction of
the overflowing garbage bucket beside the stove.

He picked up the glass.  Offer you one?  he asked, and Blaine shook his
head.  Shasa looked at him over the rim.

That look on your face can mean only one of two things, Shasa told him.
Either you have just smelled a fart or you don't approve of me.  I take
it the coarse language is a recent accomplishment, like your new
drinking habits.  I congratulate you on both.

They suit your new image.  Bugger you, Blaine Malcomess!  Shasa retorted
defiantly, and raised the glass to his lips.  He swished the whisky
through his teeth, rinsing his mouth with it.  Then he swallowed and
shuddered as the raw spirit went down his throat and he exhaled the
fumes noisily.

Mater sent you, he said flatly.

She told me where I could find you, but she didn't send me. 'Same thing
Shasa said, and held the glass to his lips, letting the last drop run
onto his tongue.  She wants me back, digging diamonds out of the dirt,
picking grapes, growing cotton, pushing paper damn it, she just doesn't
understand., She understands much more than you give her credit for. Out
there men are fighting.  David and my other mates.

They are in the sky, and I am down here in the dirt, a cripple,
grovelling in the dirt.  You chose the dirt.  Blaine looked around the
filthy shack scornfully.  And you are doing the whining and grovelling
Get the hell out of here, sir!  Shasa told him.

You'd better Before I lose my temper.  A pleasure, I assure you.  Blaine
stood up.  I misjudged you.  I came to offer you a job, an important war
job, but I can see that you are not man enough for it.  He crossed to
the door of the cottage and paused.  I was going to issue an invitation
as well, an invitation to a party on Friday night.

Tara is going to announce her engagement to marry Hubert Langley. I
thought it might amuse you, but forget it.  He went out with his long
determined stride and after a few seconds Shasa followed him out onto
the stoep and watched him climb the cliff path.  Blaine never looked
back once, and when he disappeared over the top, Shasa felt suddenly
abandoned and bereft.

He had not until that moment realized how large Blaine Malcomess bulked
in his life.  How much he had relied on Blaine's good counsel and
experience, both on and off the polo field.

I wanted to be like him so much, he said aloud.  And now I never will
be.  He touched the black patch over his eye.

Why me?  He gave the eternal cry of the loser.  Why me?  And he sank
down onto the top step and stared out over the calm green waters to the
entrance of the bay.

Slowly the full impact of Blaine's words sank home.  He thought about
the job he had offered, an important war job then he thought about Tara
and Hubert Langley.  Tara, he saw her grey eyes and smoking red hair,
and self-pity washed over him in a cold dark wave.

Listlessly he stood up and went into the shack.  He opened the cupboard
above the sink.  There was a single bottle of Haig left. 'What happened
to the others?  he asked himself.

Mice?  He cracked the cap on the bottle, and looked for a glass.

They were all dirty, piled in the sink.  He lifted the bottle to his
lips, and the fumes made his eye smart.  He lowered the bottle before he
drank and stared at it.  His stomach heaved and he was filled with a
sudden revulsion, both physical and emotional.

He tipped the bottle over the sink, and watched the golden liquid chug
and spurt into the drainhole.  When it was gone, once it was too late,
his need for it returned strongly and he was seized by dismay. His
throat felt parched and sore and the hand that held the empty bottle
began to shake.  The desire for oblivion ached in every joint of his
bones, and his eye burned so that he had to blink it clear.

He hurled the bottle against the wall of the shack and ran out into the
sunshine, down the steps to the beach.  He stripped off the eye-patch
and his rugby shorts and dived into the cold green water and struck out
in a hard overarm crawl.  By the time he reached the entrance to the
cove, every muscle ached and his breathing scorched his lungs.

He turned and without slackening the tempo of his stroke headed back to
the beach.  As soon as his feet touched bottom he turned again, and swam
out to the headland, back and forth he ploughed, hour after hour, until
he was so exhausted that he could not tift an arm clear of the surface
and he was forced to struggle back the last hundred yards in a painful
side-stroke.

He crawled up the beach, fell face down on the wet sand and lay like a
dead man.  it was the middle of the afternoon before he had recovered
the energy to push himself upright and limp up to the shack.

He stood in the doorway and looked around at the mess he had created.
Then he took the broom from behind the door and went to work.

It was late afternoon before he had finished.  The only thing he could
do nothing about was the dirty bed linen.  He bundled the soiled
blankets with his dirty clothes for the dhobi waRah at Weltevreden to
launder.  Then he drew a kettle of fresh water from the rainwater tank
beside the back door and heated it over the stove.

He shaved carefully, dressed in the cleanest shirt and slacks he could
find and adjusted the patch over his eye.  He locked the shack and hid
the key; then, carrying the bundle of dirty laundry he climbed the
pathway to the top.  His Jaguar was dusty and streaked with sea salt.
The battery was flat and he had to run it down the hill and start it on
the fly.

Centaine was in her study, seated at her desk, poring over a pile of
documents.  She sprang to her feet when he came in and would have rushed
to him, but with an obvious effort she restrained herself.

Hello, cheri, you look so well.  I was worried about you it's been so
long.  Five weeks.  The patch over his eye still horrified her.

Every time she saw it she remembered Isabella Malcomess last words to
her: An eye for an eye, Centaine Courtney.  Heed my words an eye for an
eye.  As soon as she had herself under control again she went calmly to
meet him and lifted her face for his kiss.

I'm glad you are home again, cheri.  Blaine Malcomess has offered me a
job, a war job.  I'm thinking of taking it.  I am sure it is important,
Centaine nodded.  I am happy for you.  I can hold the fort here until
you are ready to return., I am sure you can, Mater, he grinned wryly.
After all you have been doing pretty well for the last twenty-two years,
holding the fort.  The long line of goods trucks drawn by a double
coupling of steam locomotives climbed the last slope of the pass.  On
the steep gradient, the locomotives were sending bright silver columns
of steam spurting from their valves, and the Hex river mountains echoed
to the roar of their straining boilers.

With a final effort they crested the head of the pass and burst out onto
the high plateau of the open karoo; gathering speed dramatically they
thundered away across the flatlands and the line of closed trucks snaked
after them.

Forty miles beyond the head of the pass the train slowed and then
trundled to a halt in the shunting yards of the intermediate railway
junction of Touws river.

The relief crews were waiting in the stationmaster's office and they
greeted the incoming crews with a little light banter and then climbed
aboard to take their places on the footplates.  The leading locomotive
was uncoupled and shunred onto a side spur.  It was no longer needed,
the rest of the run, a thousand miles northwards to the goldfields of
the Witwatersrand, was across comparatively flat land. The second
locomotive would return down the mountain pass to link up with the next
goods train and assist it up the steep gradients.

The incoming crews, carrying their lunch pails and overcoats, set off
down the lane towards the row of railway cottages, relieved to be home
in time for a hot bath and dinner.  only one of the drivers lingered on
the platform and watched the goods train pull out of the siding,
gathering speed swiftly as it headed northwards.

He counted the trucks as they passed him, verifying his previous count.
Numbers twelve and thirteen were closed trucks, painted silver to
distinguish them and to deflect the heat of the sun's rays.  On the side
of each was blazoned a crimson cross, and in letters six feet tall that
ran the full length of each truck, the warning: EXPLOSiVES.  They had
each been loaded at the Somerset West factory of African Explosives and
Chemical Industries with twenty tons of gelignite consigned to the gold
mines of the Anglo American Group.

As the guard's van passed him the driver sauntered into the
stationmaster's office.  The stationmaster was still at the far end of
the platform, his pillbox cap on his head and his furled flags of red
and green under his arm.  The driver lifted the telephone off its
bracket on the wall and spun the handle.

Central, he said into the voice-piece, speaking in Afrikaans, 'give me
Matjiesfontein eleven sixteen.  He waited while the operator made the
connection.  You are through.  Go ahead.  But the driver waited for the
click of the operator going off the line before he said, 'Van Niekerk
here.  This is White Sword.  The reply, though he had been expecting it,
made the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

She is running twenty-three minutes late.  She left here two minutes
ago.  The trucks are numbers twelve and thirteen.  Well done. Manfred De
La Rey replaced the telephone and checked his wrist-watch before he
smiled at the two women who watched him apprehensively across the
farmhouse kitchen.

Thank you, Mevrou, he addressed the older of the two.

We are grateful for your help.  No trouble will come to you out of this,
I give you my word.  Trouble is an old acquaintance, Meneer, the proud
old woman replied.  In ninety-nine the rooinekke burned my farm and
killed my husband.  Manfred had parked the motorcycle behind the barn.
He started it and rode back down the track a mile or so until he joined
the main road.  He turned north, and a few miles further on he was
riding parallel to the railway line.  At the base of a rocky hill the
lines and the road diverged.  The railway tracks climbed the shoulder of
the hill and then disappeared behind it.

Manfred stopped the motorcycle and checked that the road was clear,
ahead and behind, then he turned off onto another farmtrack, and
followed the railway tracks around the back of the hill.  Again he
stopped, propped the bike on its foot rest, and checked the locale.

They were far enough from the widow's farmhouse not to attach suspicion
to the old woman.  The hill hid this section of the tracks from the main
road, but the road was close enough to offer a swift escape route in
either direction.  The gradient would slow the approaching locomotive to
almost walking pace.  He had watched while other goods trains passed the
spot.

He turned the cycle off the road, following the tracks of other wheels
that had flattened the grass.  In the first fold of the land, hidden in
a cluster of thorn trees, the trucks were parked.  Four of them, a
three-tonner, two four-tonners and a big brown Bedford ten-tonner.
Getting fuel rationing coupons to fill their tanks had been difficult.

It was a mere hundred paces to the railway line from where the trucks
stood and his men were waiting beside them, resting, lying in the grass,
but they scrambled up as the motorcycle bumped and puttered over the
fold of ground and they crowded around him eagerly.  Roelf Stander was
at their head.

She'll be here at nine-thirty, Manfred told him.  The trucks are twelve
and thirteen.  Work that out.  One of his band was a railway man, and he
made the calculations of distance between the locomotive and the
explosive trucks.  Roelf and Manfred left the others hidden and went out
onto the line to mark out the distances.  Manfred wanted to stop the
goods train so that the two laden trucks were directly opposite the
waiting vehicles in the clump of thorn trees.

They paced it out from this point and Manfred set the charges under the
fish plates in a joint of the tracks.  Then he and Roelf went back and
laid the red warning flares, using 0, the railwayman's calculations of
speed and distance as a guide.

It was dark by the time they had finished, so they could proceed to the
next step.  They moved the men out into their positions.  They were all
young, picked for their size and physical strength.  They were dressed
in rough clothing of dark colours and armed with a motley collection of
weapons that had survived the call-in by the Smuts government shotguns
and old Lee Enfields and Marmlichers from other long-ago wars.  Only
Roelf and Manfred were armed with modern German Lugers, part of the
contents of the rubber canisters from the U-boat.

Manfred took charge of the smaller group while Roelf waited with the
work party that would unload the trucks, and they settled down in
darkness to wait.

Manfred heard it first, the distant susurration in the night, still far
off, and he roused them with three sharp blasts on his whistle.  Then he
armed the battery box and connected the wires to the brass screw
terminals.  The huge Cyclops eye of the approaching locomotive glared
across the plain below the hill.  The waiting men adjusted their face
masks and lay hidden in the grassy ditch beside the railway line.

The beat of the locomotive engine slowed and became deeper as it ran
onto the slope.  It climbed laboriously, running past the first group of
waiting men, and then it hit the first of the warning flares. The flare
ignited with a sharp crack and lit the veld for fifty yards around with
red flickering light.

Manfred heard the metallic squeal of brakes, and he relaxed slightly.
The driver was acting reflexively, it would not be necessary to blow out
the tracks.  The second flare ignited, shooting out long tongues of red
flame from under the driving wheels, but by now the locomotive was
pulling up sharply, brakes grinding metal on metal and steam flying from
the emergency vacuum tubes in screaming white jets.

While it was still moving, Manfred leapt onto the footplates, and thrust
the Luger into the astonished faces of the driver and his fireman.

Shut her down!  Switch off the headlight!  he yelled through his mask.
Then get down from the cab!  With the brakes locked, the railwaymen
scrambled down and lifted their hands high.  They were immediately
searched and trussed up.  Manfred ran back down the train, and by the
time he reached the explosives trucks, Roelfs men had already forced the
doors and the wooden cases of gelignite were being handed along a human
chain to be loaded into the first lorry.

What about the guard at the rear of the train?  Manfred asked.

We have got him tied up, Roelf answered, and Manfred ran back to the
head of the train.  Swiftly he defused and lifted the explosive charges
he had laid, delighted that it had not been necessary to fire them.  By
the time he got back, the first lorry was fully loaded with cases of
explosives.

Take her away!  Roelf yelled, and one of his men climbed into the cab,
started the engine and with lights extinguished, drove it away.

The second vehicle reversed up to the explosives trucks and they began
to load it.

Manfred checked his watch.  Twelve minutes, he muttered.  They were
ahead of schedule.

The driver, the guard and the fireman were tied securely and locked in
the guard's van while the loading of explosives went on smoothly and
swiftly.

All finished, Roelf shouted.  We can't load any more. 'Forty-eight
minutes, Manfred told him.  Well done.  All right, move out everybody!
Manfred ordered.  What about you?  I'll look after myself.  He watched
the Bedford truck pull away and waited until it reached the farm road
and switched on its headlights.  The sound of its engine dwindled.  He
was alone.  If Roelf or the others had known what he intended to do now,
they might have baulked and tried to prevent it.

Manfred climbed into the open door of the explosives truck.  it was half
filled with the white wooden cases.  They had only been able to carry
away a part of the load, while the second truck had not been touched.
There were still at least twenty-five tons of explosive remaining on
board.

He set the timing device with a delay of fifteen minutes and placed it
in the gap between the stacked cases and the steel side of the truck,
pushing it far back where it could not be readily seen. Then he jumped
down to the ground and ran forward to the locomotive. None of the three
men locked in the caboose of the guard's van were members of the Ossewa
Brandwag.  Left alive they would be certain to give damaging evidence to
the police.  He felt little pity for them. They were casualties of war.

He climbed into the cab of the locomotive and disengaged the wheel
brakes; then he opened the throttle gradually.

The wheels spun, then found purchase and the train jolted forward with
the couplings clanking.  It began to pull away jerkily up the slope.

Manfred eased the throttle open to the halfway notch and locked it
there.  Then he jumped down to the ground, and watched the trucks rumble
past where he stood.  They were gaining speed gradually.  When the
caboose passed, he walked back down the tracks to the clump of thorn
trees, and sat astride the seat of the motorcycle.

He waited impatiently, glancing at his watch every few minutes.

The explosion, when at last it came, was a brief orange flare, like
sheet lightning over the northern horizon, followed after a long pause
by the puff of the shock-wave against his face and a sound like distant
surf breaking on a rocky shore.

Manfred kick-started the motorcycle and drove southwards into the night.

It was a good beginning, he thought, but there was so much still to do.

Blaine looked up as Shasa entered his office and hesitated in the
doorway.  He was neatly dressed in airforce uniform, medal ribbons on
his chest, DFC and Africa Star, and the badges of rank on his shoulders.

Morning, Shasa,Blaine nodded bleakly.  Ten o'clock.  May I offer you a
whisky?  Shasa winced.  I came to apologize for my behaviour the other
day, sir.  It was inexcusable.  Sit down.  Blaine pointed at the
buttoned leather armchair against the bookcase.  We all act like
blathering idiots at some time in our lives.  The trick is to know when
you are doing it.  Apology accepted.  Shasa sat down and crossed his
legs, then uncrossed them.

You mentioned a job, sir?  Blaine nodded and stood up.  He moved to the
window and stood staring down into the gardens.  An old woman was
feeding the pigeons from a paper bag.  He watched her as he made his
final decision.  Was he letting his concern for Centaine Courtney and
her son cloud his sense of duty?  What he had in mind was critical to
the welfare of the state.

Was Shasa too young and inexperienced for the task?  he wondered. But he
had gone over this many times already, and he turned back to his desk.

He picked up a plain uninarked black folder.  This is highly classified,
he said as he weighed the folder in his right hand.  A most secret and
sensitive report and appreciation.  He handed it to Shasa.  It is not to
leave this office.

Read it here.  I have a meeting with Field Marshal Smuts.  He Pulled
back his sleeve and glanced at his watch.  I will be back in an hour.
We'll talk again then.  He was longer than an hour, and when he returned
Shasa was still reading.  He looked up at Blaine from the armchair with
the open folder in his hands, and his expression was troubled and grave.

What do you make of it?  Blaine asked.

Of course, I have heard of the O B, Shasa replied.  But I had no idea it
was anything like this.  It's a secret army, sir, right in our midst. If
it were ever to be fully mobilized against us, he shook his head, trying
to find the words.

A revolution, a civil war, while most of our own fighting men are up
north.  They have begun to move, Blaine said softly.  Until now they
have been procrastinating, in typical Afrikaner style, squabbling
amongst themselves, but something has happened recently to give them new
purpose, he broke off, thought for a moment, then went on.  It goes
without saying, Shasa, that nothing we discuss must be repeated to
anybody, not even closest family.  Of course, sir.  Shasa looked
aggrieved.

You read about the explosion of a dynamite train on the Touws river line
two weeks ago?  Yes, sir, a frightful accident.  The driver and his crew
went up with it.  We have new evidence.  We don't believe it was an
accident.  The crew were all in the guard's van, and there are
indications that at least one of them was bound hand and foot.  We
believe that a large quantity of explosives was hijacked from the train,
and afterwards the remainder was detonated to cover the theft. Shasa
whistled softly.

I believe this was merely a beginning.  I believe that a new phase has
begun and that it is going to escalate swiftly from now onwards.  As I
said, something has happened to trigger it, we have to find out what it
is and crush it.  How can I help, sir?  This thing is big, nationwide. I
have to keep close contact with the police chiefs of each of the various
provinces together with military intelligence.  The entire operation
must be closely coordinated.  I need a personal assistant, a liaison
officer.  I'm offering you the job.  I'm honoured, sir, but I can't see
why you have chosen me. There must be dozens of other better qualified,,
We know each other well, Shasa, Blaine interrupted him.

We have worked together over many years.  We make a good team.  I trust
you.  I know you have both brains and guts.  I don't need a policeman. I
need someone who understands my thinking and who I know will follow my
orders implicitly.  Suddenly Blaine grinned.  Besides which, you need a
job.  Am I right?  You are right, sir.  Thank you. 'You are on
convalescent leave at the moment, but I will have you seconded from the
airforce to the Department of the interior immediately.  You will keep
your rank and pay as squadron leader, but you will report directly to me
from now on.  I understand, sir. 'Shasa, have you flown since you lost
your eye?  He came right out and spoke about the eye without evasion.
Nobody, not even Mater, had done that.  Shasa's regard for him was
reinforced.

No, sir,he said.

Pity.  You may be required to move around the country pretty damned
quickly.  He watched Shasa's face, saw his jaw clench determinedly.

It's only a matter of judging distance accurately, Shasa muttered.  Just
practice.  Blaine felt a glow of gratification.

Try hitting a polo ball again, he suggested off handedly.

Good practice in developing judgement, but let's discuss more serious
business now.  The police officer in overall charge of the investigation
is Chief Inspector Louis Nel, here at the Cape Town Central Station.
I'll introduce you.  He's a first-rate chap, you'll like him.  They
talked and planned for another hour before Blaine dismissed him.  That's
enough for you to get on with.  Report back to me here at eight-thirty
tomorrow morning.  But when Shasa reached the door he stopped him.

By the way, Shasa, Friday night.  The invitation is still open. Eight
o'clock.  Black tie or mess kit.  Try and make it, won't you? Sarah
Stander lay alone in the brass-framed bed in the darkness.  The older
children were sleeping in the next room.

The baby in the cot beside her bed snuffled contentedly in her sleep.

The town hall clock struck four o'clock.  She had listened to it chime
every hour since midnight.  She thought she would go through to the
other room to make sure the children were covered, little Petrus always
kicked off his blankets, but at that moment she heard the kitchen door
open stealthily and she went rigid and held her breath to listen.

She heard Roelf come through and begin undressing in the bathroom, the
double thump-thump as he dropped his boots, then a little later the
bedroom door creaked and the bed tipped under his weight.  She pretended
to be sleeping.  It was the first time he had ever stayed out this late.
He had changed so much since Manfred had returned.

She lay unsleeping in the darkness and thought, He is the bringer of
trouble.  He will destroy us all.  I hate you, Manfred De La Rey. Beside
her she knew Roelf was not sleeping either.  He was restless and strung
up.  The hours passed slowly, and she forced herself to lie still.  Then
the baby whimpered and she took her into the bed and gave her one of her
breasts.

Sarah's milk had always been strong and good, and the baby drank and
burped and dropped back to sleep.  She returned her to the cot, and the
moment she slipped back under the sheet Roelf reached for her. Neither
of them spoke, and she steeled herself to accept him.  She hated this.
It was never like it had been on those well-remembered occasions with
Manfred.  However, tonight Roelf was different.  He mounted her quickly,
almost brutally, and ended swiftly with a hoarse wild cry and he fell
off her into a deep sleep.  She lay and listened to him snore.

At breakfast she asked him quietly, Where were you last night? instantly
he was angry.  Hold your mouth, woman, he shouted at her, using the word
bek, the mouth of an animal not a human being.  You are not my keeper.
You are involved in some dangerous foolishness.  She ignored the
warning.  You have three little ones, Roelf.  You cannot afford
stupidity Enough, woman!  he yelled at her.  This is man's business.

You keep out of it.  Without another word he left for the university,
where he was a lecturer in the law faculty.  She knew that in ten years
he could have the chair, if only he didn't get into trouble before that.

After she had cleaned the house and made the beds, she put the children
into the big double pram and pushed them down the sidewalk towards the
centre of the village.  She stopped once to talk with one of the other
university wives, and again to buy sugar suckers for the two big
children.

Then, as she was paying for the candy, she noticed the headlines of the
newspapers piled on the counter.

I'll take a Burger as well.  She crossed the road and sat on a park
bench while she read the story of the explosion of a goods train
somewhere in the karoo.  Then she folded the paper neatly and sat
thinking.

Roelf had left after lunch the previous day.  The explosion had occurred
at a little before ten-thirty p.m.  She worked out times and distances,
and slowly a cold crippling dismay made her belly cramp. She put the
children back in the pram and crossed to the post office. She parked the
pram beside the glass telephone booth where she could keep an eye on it.

Central, please give me the main police station in Cape Town. 'Hold the
line.  Suddenly the enormity of what she was about to do broke m upon
her.  How could she turn Manfred De La Rey over to the police without
betraying her own husband to them at the same time, and yet she knew it
was her duty to stop Roelf doing these terrible things that must lead to
disaster.

It was her duty to her husband and to her babies.

This is the Cape Town central police station.  May I help you? 'Yes,
Sarah stuttered, and then No, I'm sorry.  It doesn't matter.  It isn't
important.  She hung up, ran out of the booth and wheeled the pram
determinedly back towards the cottage.  She sat at the kitchen table and
wept softly, bewildered and alone and uncertain.  Then after a while she
wiped her eyes on her apron and made herself a cup of coffee Shasa
parked the Jaguar across the road from Blaine Malcomess home, but he did
not get out at once.  He sat and considered what he was about to
attempt.

Probably make an idiot of myself again, he thought, and tilted the
rearview mirror so that he could see himself in it.

He ran a comb through his hair and adjusted the eye-patch carefully.
Then he climbed out.

Vehicles were parked bumper to bumper down both sides of Newlands
Avenue.  It was a big party, two or three hundred guests, but then
Blaine Malcomess was a big man and his daughter's engagement an
important event.

Shasa crossed the road.  The front doors were wide open, but still it
was difficult to get into the house.  Even the lobby was crowded, and
the party was in full swing.  A coloured band was belting out The
Lambeth Walk and Shasa could see into the lounge where the dancers were
prancing around merrily.  He pushed his way through to the bar. Even
Blaine Malcomess couldn't offer whisky, it just wasn't obtainable any
longer.  Nowadays it was considered patriotic to drink Cape brandy, but
Shasa ordered a ginger ale.

My drinking days have come and gone,he thought wryly and, glass in hand,
eased his way through the packed rooms, shaking hands with old friends,
kissing the cheeks of the women, many of whom he had at one time or
another kissed with more purpose.

So good to see you back, Shasa.  They tried not to notice the black
eye-patch, and after a few seconds he moved on, searching for her.

She was in the dining-room with the coloured chef and two maids,
supervising the final touches to the elaborate buffet dinner.

She looked up and saw him and froze.  She was wearing a filmy light
evening dress the colour of ash of roses, and her hair was down to her
shoulders.  He had forgotten how her eyes could shine like
mother-of-pearl, grey mother-ofpearl.

She made a gesture dismissing the servants, and he went slowly to meet
her.

Hello, Tara, I'm back,he said.

Yes, I heard.  You've been back five weeks.  I thought you might, she
stopped and studied his face.  I heard you were decorated, she touched
the ribbon on his chest.  And that you were wounded.  She studied his
face frankly, not avoiding looking at his left eye.  Then she smiled. It
makes you look very dashing.  it doesn't make me feel dashing.  I can
sense that, she nodded.  You have changed.  Do you think so?  she shook
her head, irritated that she could not find the precise word.  Yes, you
aren't so, Not so brash, so cock-sure.  I want to talk to you, he said.
Seriously.  All right, she nodded. 'What is it?  Not here, he said.  Not
with all these people.  No 'Tomorrow?  Tomorrow will be too late.  Come
with me now.

Shasa, are you mad?  This is my party, my engagement party. 'I'll bring
the jag around to the tradesmen's entrance, he said. 'You'll need a
wrap, it's cold out.  He parked the jag close in against the wall.  This
was where they used to conduct those long lingering farewells.

He switched off the headlights.  He knew she would not come, but
nevertheless, he waited.

His surprise was genuine, his relief intense when she pulled open the
door and slid into the passenger's seat.  She had changed into slacks
and a rollneck sweater.  She wasn't going back to the party.

Drive!  she said.  Get away from here.  They were silent for a while,
and he glanced at her every time a street lamp lit the interior.

She was looking straight ahead smiling faintly, and at last she spoke.

You never needed anything or anyone before.  That was the one thing I
couldn't stand about you.  He did not reply.

I think you need me now.  I sensed it the very moment I saw you again.
You truly need me at last.  He was silent, words seemed superfluous.
Instead he reached across and took her hand.

I'm ready for you now, Shasa, she said.  Take me somewhere we can be
alone, entirely alone.  There was enough moon to light the pathway.  She
clung to him for support and they laughed breathlessly with excitement
and stopped halfway down the cliff to kiss.

He let them into the shack and lit the paraffin lamp.  With relief Shasa
saw that the servants from Weltevreden had followed his orders. There
was fresh linen on the bunk, and the floor had been polished.

Tara stood in the centre of the floor, her hands clasped protectively in
front of her, her eyes huge and luminous in the lamplight, and she began
to tremble when he took her in his arms.

Shasa, please be gentle, she whispered.  I'm so scared.  He was patient
and very gentle, but she had no yardstick by which to recognize how
immensely skilled and certain he was.  She only knew that he seemed to
sense each nuance of change in her feelings, anticipating each response
of her body so that she felt no shame at her nakedness, and all her
other fears and doubts dissolved swiftly under his tender hands and soft
loving lips.  At last she found herself running ahead of him, learning
swiftly to guide and encourage him with subtle little movements and
small gasps and cries of approval.

So that at the end she gazed up at him with wonder, and whispered,
huskily, I never thought, I never dreamed it would be like that.  Oh,
Shasa, I'm so glad you came back to me.  The Fordsburg branch of the
Standard Bank serviced all the gold mines of the Central Rand complex.
all the wages of the tens of thousands of weekly paid black mine workers
were drawn from this branch and the senior accountant was a member of
the O B.

His name was Willem De Kok, a small pasty-faced runt of a man with
myopic misty eyes behind thick lenses, but his looks were deceptive.
Within a few minutes of their meeting Manfred De La Rey found he had a
quick mind, a complete dedication to the cause and almost too much
courage for his small body.

The money comes in on Thursday afternoon, between five and six o'clock.
They use an armoured car and there is a police escort on motorcycles.
That isn't the time to do it.

There would almost certainly be shooting.  I understand, Manfred nodded.
Before you go on, please tell us how much money is usually transferred.
Between fifty thousand and seventy thousand pounds Thursday of each
month, when we make except on the last provision for the monthly paid
workers on the mine properties.  Then it will be closer to a hundred
thousand.  In addition there is always our ordinary cash float of
approximately twenty-five thousand.  They were gathered in the home of
one of the mine officials of the Crown Deep gold mines. The same man had
recruited the local stormiagers for the operation.  He was a big
red-faced man named Lourens, with the look of a heavy drinker.  Manfred
was not entirely happy with him; although so far he had found no real
cause for his mistrust, he felt the man would be unreliable under
stress.

Thank you, Meneer De Kok, please go on.  The bank manager, Mr
Cartwright, opens the back door of the building and the money is brought
in.  Of course, at this time in the afternoon the bank is closed to
normal business.  Mr Cartwright and I, together with our two senior
tellers, count the money and issue a receipt.  it is then deposited in
the vault and locked up for the night.  I have one key and half of the
combination.  Mr Cartwright keeps the other key and has the other half
of the combination.  That would be the time, Manfred anticipated.  After
the police escort has left, but before the vault is locked.  That is a
possibility, De Kok nodded.  However, at that time it will still be
light.  Many people on the streets.  Mr Cartwright is a difficult man,
many things could go wrong.

May I tell you how I would arrange it, if I were in command? ,Thank you,
Meneer De Kok.  I'm glad of your assistance.  It was ten minutes before
midnight when Mr Peter Cartwright left the Freemason hall at the end of
the meeting.  He was the master of the lodge and he was still wearing
his apron over his dinner jacket.  He always parked his Morris in the
lane behind the hall, but tonight as he sat in the driver's seat and
fumbled with the ignition key, something hard was pressed into the back
of his neck and a cold voice said quietly, This is a pistol, Mr
Cartwright.  If you do not do exactly as you are told, you will be shot
in the back of the head.  Drive to the bank, please. Terrified for his
life and following the instructions of the two masked men in the back
seat of the Morris, Peter Cartwright drove to the bank building and
parked the Morris near the back door.  There had been a spate of bank
robberies over the last few months, at least four on the Witwatersrand
and during one of them a bank guard had been shot dead.

Cartwright was in no doubt as to the danger of his position or the
ruthlessness of his captors.

As soon as he climbed out of the Morris, they closed on each side of
him, pinning his arms and hustling him to the back door of the bank.

One of them tapped upon it with the butt of his pistol and to
Cartwright's astonishment it opened immediately.  Only when he was
inside did he realize how the robbers had gained access.  His senior
accountant Willem De Kok was already there, in pyjamas and dressinggown,
his hair tousled and his face slack and ashen with terror.  He had
obviously been dragged from his bed.

I'm sorry, Mr Cartwright,he blubbered.  They forced me.  Pull yourself
together, man, Cartwright snapped at him, his own fear making him
brusque, then his expression changed as he saw the two women: De Kok's
fat little wife and his own beloved Mary in hair curlers and pink
fulllength dressing-gown with artificial pink roses down the front.

Peter, she wailed.  Oh Peter, don't let them do anything.  Stop that,
Mary.  Don't let them see you like that.  Cartwright looked around at
his captors.  There were six of them, including the two who had waylaid
him, but his training in character judgement enabled him to pick out the
leader almost immediately, a tall, powerfully built man with a dense
black beard curling out from under his cloth face-mask, and above the
mask a pair of strangely pale eyes, like those of one of the big
predatory cats.  His fear turned to real terror when he looked into
those yellow eyes, for he sensed that there was no compassion in them.

Open the vault, the man said.  His English was heavily accented.

I don't have the key, Cartwright said, and the man with yellow eyes
seized Mary Cartwright by the wrist and forced her to her knees.

You wouldn't dare, Cartwright blustered, and the man placed the muzzle
of his pistol to Mary's temple.

MY wife is going to have a baby, Cartwright said.

Then you will want to spare her any further unpleasantness. open it for
them, Peter.  Let them have it.  It's not our money, Mary screamed. It's
the bank's.  Give it to them, And she began to urinate in little spurts
that soaked through the skirts of her dressing-gown.

Cartwright went to the green Chatwood steel door of the vault and drew
his watch chain from his fob pocket with the key dangling on the end of
it.  Anger and humiliation seethed in him as he tumbled the combination
and turned the key.  He stood back while De Kok came forward to do the
same.  Then, while all their attention was on the vault door as it swung
open, he glanced across at his desk.  He kept the pistol in the top
right-hand drawer.  It was a .455 service Webley and there was always a
round under the hammer.

By now his outrage at the treatment of his wife outweighed his terror.

Get the money!  the leader with the pale eyes ordered and three of the
robbers, carrying canvas kit bags, hurried into the vault.

My wife, Cartwright said, I must see to her.  Nobody interfered as he
lifted her to her feet and helped her to the desk.  Tenderly he settled
her into the chair, keeping up a flow of reassurance that covered the
soft scrape as he opened the drawer.

He lifted the pistol and slipped it into the pocket of his masonic
apron.

Then he backed away, leaving his wife at the desk.  He had both hands
raised to shoulder level in an attitude of surrender as he rejoined De
Kok against the far wall.  Both women were out of the line of his fire,
but he waited until the three robbers re-emerged from the vault, each of
them lugging a kitbag stuffed with wads of banknotes. Again all
attention was on those bulging canvas bags, and Cartwright reached into
the pocket of his white leather apron, brought out the pistol and his
first shot crashed across the room in a long spurt of blue gunsmoke.  He
kept firing as the Luger bullets smashed into his body, and he was flung
back against the wall.  He fired until the hammer of the Webley snapped
down on a spent cartridge, but his last bullet had gone into the
concrete floor between his feet, and he was dead as he slumped down the
bullet-pocked wall and huddled at the foot of it, with his blood
puddling under him.

SHOOT-OUT AT RAND BANK TWO DEAD ROBBERY LINKED TO O B The letters OB
caught Sarah Stander's eye on the placard outside the news-stand. She
went in and bought candy for the children, as she always did, and then,
as an apparent afterthought, she took a copy of the newspaper.

She crossed to the park and while the two toddlers romped on the lawn
and she absently rocked the pram.  with her foot to keep the baby quiet,
she read the front-page article avidly.

Mr Peter Cartwright, the manager of a bank in Foraisburg, was last night
shot dead while attempting to prevent a robbery at the bank's premises.
One of the robbers was also shot dead, while a second man was seriously
wounded and taken into custody by the police.

First estimates are that the four remaining robbers fled with cash in
excess of 5,100,000.

police spokesman said this morning that preliminary interrogation of the
wounded robber had established definite involvement by members of the
Ossewa Brandwag in the outrage.

The Minister of the Interior, Colonel Blaine Malcomess, announced from
his office in the House of Parliament in Cape Town that he had ordered
an enquiry into the subversive activities of the O B and that any member
of the public with information to offer should contact the nearest
police station or telephone the following numbers: Johannesburg 78I 4,
Cape Town 42444.  The minister gave the assurance that all information
would be treated in the strictest confidence.

She sat for almost an hour, trying to reach a decision, torn between
loyalty to her family and her patriotic duty to her own people.

She was confused, terribly confused.  Was it right to blow up trains and
rob banks and kill innocent people in the name of freedom and justice?
Would she be a traitoress if she tried to save her husband and her
babies?

And what about those other innocents who were certain to die if Manfred
De La Rey were allowed to continue?  She could readily imagine the
strife and chaos that would result if the entire country were to be
plunged into civil war.  She looked at the newspaper again and memorized
the telephone number.

She stood up, called the children and wheeled the pram across the road.
As she reached the far sidewalk and started towards the post office, she
noticed old Mr Oberholster, the postmaster, watching her from the window
of his office.  She knew that he was one of them, she had seen him in OB
I uniform when he came to the cottage to pick Roelf up for one of their
meetings.

immediately she felt panicky with guilt.  All telephone calls went
through the post office exchange.  Oberholster might easily listen in on
her conversation, or the operator might recognize her voice.  She turned
away and pushed the pram down towards the butcher as though that had
originally been her intention.  She bought two pounds of pork chops,
Roelf's favourite dinner, and hurried back to the cottage, eager to be
off the street, to be alone so she could think.

As she let herself into the kitchen she heard men's voices in the front
room that Roelf used as a study.  He was back early from the university
today, and then her pulse quickened as she heard Manfred's voice.  She
felt guilty and disloyal that he could still have that effect upon her.
Manfred had not been to the cottage for almost three weeks, and she
realized that she had missed him and thought about him almost every day
with feelings that oscillated from bitter hatred and resentment to
tremulous physical arousal.

She began to prepare dinner for Roelf and the children, but the men's
voices carried quite clearly from the front room.  Occasionally Sarah
paused to listen, and once she heard Manie say, While I was in Jo'burg,
I So he had been in Johannesburg.  The bank robbery had taken place the
night before last, time enough since then for him to come down by road
or on the mail train.  She thought about the two men who had been
killed.  She had read in the paper that the bank manager had a pregnant
wife and two small children.  She wondered how the woman felt now, with
her husband gone, and three little ones to care for.

Then she was distracted by the men's voices again, and she paused to
listen.  What she heard filled her with foreboding, Where will this
thing end?  she brooded.  Oh I wish they would stop.  I wish Manie would
go away and leave us alone, But the thought of that filled her with a
sense of hopelessness.

Shasa flew down alone from the Witwatersrand in the Rapide and landed at
Youngsfield after dark.  He drove directly from the airfield to Blaine's
home in Newlands Avenue.

Tara opened the door to him, her face lighting when she realized it was
him.  Oh, darling, I missed you!  They kissed rapturously until Blaine's
voice made them start apart.

Look here, Shasa, I don't like to interrupt anything important, but when
you can spare a moment I'd like to hear your report.  Tara was blushing
furiously.  Daddy, you were spying on us!  Public display, my dear.  No
spying necessary.  Come along, Shasa.  He led the way to his study and
waved Shasa to a chair.

Drink?  I'd like a ginger ale, sir.  How are the mighty fallen!  Blaine
poured a little of his hoarded whisky for himself and handed Shasa the
ginger ale.  Now what is it that you couldn't talk about on the
telephone?  We just might have had a bit of luck at last, sir.  On
Blaine's orders Shasa had flown up to Johannesburg as soon as the
Fordsburg bank robbery had been linked to the Ossewa Brandwag.  He had
been at Marshall Square, the headquarters of the CID, while the captured
bank robber was being interrogated.  As you know, the fellow is an
official on the Crown Mines.  Thys Lourens is his name, and sure enough
he was on our list of known OB members.  Not one of the big fish,
however, but quite a formidable-looking chap, although I'd expect him to
be a bit of a boozer.  I told the police inspector that you wanted
answers No rough stuff.  Blaine frowned.

No, sir.  It wasn't necessary.  Lourens wasn't as tough as he looked. We
only had to point out that the penalty for armed robbery and accessory
to murder was the gallows, but that we were prepared to do a deal and he
started to gush.  I gave you most of what he told us when I telephoned
you this morning.  Yes.  Go on.  Then he gave us the names of the other
men involved in the robbery, that is, three of them.  We were able to
make the arrests before I left Johannesburg. However, the leader of the
gang was a man he had only met three days before the

robbery.  He did not know his name, or where we could find him. Did he
give you a description?  Yes.  Big man, black hair and beard, crooked
nose, scar over one eye, a pretty detailed description, but he gave us
some thing else which may be vital.  What is that?  A code name.  The
leader is known only as Die Wit Swaard, the White Sword, and they were
ordered to cooperate with him from the very top level of the
stormjagers!

White Sword, Blaine mused.  Sounds like something out of Boys Own Paper.
Unfortunately not so childish, Shasa went on.  I impressed upon the
inspector in charge that the code name and the description must be
withheld until he had orders from you personally. 'Good.  Blaine sipped
his drink, pleased that his trust in Shasa Courtney had been so soon
vindicated.  White Sword, I wonder if this is the trigger we have been
looking for, the catalyst that has at last brought the O B to the point
of action.  It could very well be, sir. All the arrested members of the
gang are obviously very much in awe of the man.  He was clearly the
force behind the entire thing, and he has disappeared completely.  There
is no trace of the missing money, incidentally, we have established that
it is over one hundred and twenty-seven thousand I pounds., A tidy sum,
Blaine murmured, and we must presume that it has gone into the war chest
of the O B, probably along with the gelignite from the railway
hijacking., As far as this code name goes, sir, I would like to suggest
that we continue to keep it from the press and everybody not directly
concerned with the investigation.  I agree.  However, let me hear your
reasons, see if they are the same as mine.  Firstly, we don't want to
alert the quarry.  We don't want him to know that we are on his track.
Blaine nodded.  Quite so.  The other reason is that it will confirm the
reliability of any informant who uses the code name.  I don't follow
you, Blaine frowned.

Your appeal to the public for assistance has resulted in a flood of
telephone calls, but unfortunately most of them are bogus.  if we let
the code name become general knowledge, they'll all be using it. ,I see.
Use of the code name will establish the callers credentials. 'That's it,
sir.  All right then, we'll keep it under the hat for the time being. Is
there anything else?  Not at present.  Then let me tell you what has
happened here while you were away.  I have met the prime minister and we
have decided to declare the O B a political organization.  All civil
servants, including the police and the army, will be obliged to resign
their membership immediately.  That won't alter their sympathies, Shasa
pointed out.

Of course not, Blaine agreed.  We will still have something like forty
or fifty percent of the country against us and for Nazi Germany.  It
can't go on like this, sir.  You and the Ou Baas will have to force a
showdown.  Yes, we know that.  As soon as our investigations are
complete, as soon as we have a pretty comprehensive fist of the
ringleaders, we will swoop.  Arrest them?  Shasa was startled.

Yes.  They will be interned for the duration of the war as enemies of
the state.  Shasa whistled softly.  Pretty drastic, sir. That could lead
to real trouble., That is why we have to scoop them all up in the net at
one time, we cannot afford to miss any of them. Blaine stood up.  I can
see you are exhausted, Shasa, and I am sure there are a few things that
Mademoiselle Tara has to say to

you. I'll expect you at my office at eight-thirty sharp tomorrow

morning.  They moved to the study door and Blaine added as an
afterthought, By the way, your grandfather, Sir Garry, arrived at
Weltevreden this morning., He has come down for his birthday, Shasa
smiled.  I look forward to seeing him.  I hope you and Field Marshal
Smuts will be coming to the birthday picnic as usual., Wouldn't miss it
for the world!  Blaine opened the study door and across the lobby Tara
was hovering innocently, pretending to be selecting a book from the
shelves in the library.

Blaine grinned, Tara, you let Shasa get some sleep tonight, do you hear
me?  I refuse to work with a zombie tomorrow.  The meeting in Blaine's
office the following morning lasted longer than either of them expected,
and later moved down the passageway to the prime minister's office where
Field Marshal Smuts personally questioned Shasa.  His questions were so
searching that Shasa felt drained by the effort of keeping pace with the
Ou Baas mercurial mind.  He escaped with relief, Smuts's admonition
following him.

We want this fellow "White Sword" whoever he is, and we want him before
he can do any more damage.  Get that message across to everybody
involved.  Yes, sir.  And I want those lists on my desk before the
weekend.

We must have these fellows locked up and out of harm's way.

It was mid-morning before Shasa arrived at CID headquarters and parked
the Jaguar in the reserved bay that had been set aside for him in.

The special operations room had been set up in one of the extensive
basement areas.  There was a constable on duty at the door and Shasa
signed the register.  Entry was restricted to persons on the list.  Many
of the police force were known OB members, or sympathizers.

Inspector Louis Nel had chosen his team with extreme care.

He was a balding, taciturn man whose age and job classification had
prevented him from volunteering for overseas military service, a fact
that he bitterly resented.  However, Shasa had soon discovered that he
was an easy man to like and respect, though a difficult one to please.
They had quickly established a working rapport.

Nel was in his shirt-sleeves, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he
talked into the telephone, but he covered the mouthpiece and summoned
Shasa with an imperious wave.

Where the hell have you been?  I was going to send out a search party,
he reprimanded him.  Sit down.  I want to talk to you.  Shasa perched on
the corner of his desk while the inspector continued his telephone call,
and he stared through the window into the busy operations room.
Inspector Nel had been allocated eight detectives and a bevy of female
stenographers.  The room was full of cigarette smoke and the clatter of
typewriters as they worked.  One of the other telephones on the
inspector's desk rang, and he glanced up at Shasa. 'Take that, damned
switchboard keeps putting everything through to me.  Shasa picked up the
receiver.  Good morning, this is CID headquarters.  May I help you?  he
said, and when there was silence, he repeated it in Afrikaans.

Hello, I want to talk to somebody, the caller was a woman, a young woman
and very agitated, she was speaking Afrikaans, and her voice was
breathless and uncertain.  In the paper they said you wanted to know
about the Ossewa Brandwag.  I want to talk to somebody.  My name is
Courtney, Shasa said in Afrikaans.  Squadron-Leader Courtney. I am
grateful that you want to assist the police.  You can tell me
everything.  He tried to make his voice warm and reassuring.  He could
sense that the woman was afraid, perhaps on the point of changing her
mind and ringing off.  Take your time.  I'm here to listen to you.$
',Are you the police?  Yes, madam.  Would you like to give me your name?
No!  I won't tell you- He realized his mistake.  That's perfectly all
right.  you don't have to give your name, he told her quickly, and there
was a long silence.  He could hear her breathing.

Take your time, he repeated gently.  You just tell me what you want to.
They are stealing the guns.  The woman's voice sank to a whisper.

Can you tell me what guns?  Shasa asked carefully.

From the gun factory in Pretoria, the railway workshop.  Shasa sat up
straighter and held the telephone receiver with both hands. Almost all
the military arms and munitions manufacture was being undertaken in the
railway workshops in Pretoria.  It was the only establishment with the
heavy equipment, highspeed lathes and steam presses, capable of turning
out barrels and blocks for rifles and machineguns.  The cartridge cases
for the munitions were being stamped out at the Pretoria Mint, but they
were despatched to the railway workshops for final processing.

What you are saying is important, he told her carefully.

Can you tell me how they are stealing the guns?  They are putting scrap
iron in the cases, and stealing the guns, the woman whispered.

Can you tell me who is doing this, please?  Do you know who is
responsible?  I don't know the people in the workshop, but the one who
is in charge.  I know who he is., We must know his name, Shasa told her
persuasively, but she was silent.  He could sense that she was
struggling with herself, and that if he pushed her now he would lose
her.

Do you want to tell me who he is?  he asked.  Just take your time.  His
name, the woman hesitated, was silent a moment longer, and then she
blurted out, they call him wit Swaard White Sword.  Shasa felt his skin
crawl as though it were infested with vermin, and his heart seemed to
check, miss a beat, then race away wildly.

What did you say?  White Sword, his name is White Sword, the woman
repeated and there was a crackle and click as the connection was broken.

Hello!  Hello!  Shasa shouted into the receiver.  Are you there? Don't
hang up!  But the hiss of static on the empty line mocked him.

Shasa stood beside Blaine Malcomess desk while he made the call to the
commissioner of police at Marshall Square in Johannesburg.

As soon as you have the search warrant you are to close the workshops.
No one allowed to enter or leave.  I have already spoken to the military
commander of the Transvaal.

He and his quartermaster-general will give you full cooperation. I want
you to begin the search right away, open all the weapons cases in the
stores and check every item against the factory production sheets.  I
will be flying up, leaving immediately.  Please have a police car meet
me at Roberts Heights airfield at, he glanced at Shasa for a time, five
o'clock this evening.  In the meantime, I want you to impress utter
secrecy on all your men involved in the search.  One other thing,
Commissioner, please select only men who you are satisfied are not
members of any subversive organizations, particularly the Ossewa
Brandwag.  Shasa drove them out to Youngsfield in the Jaguar and as they
parked behind the hangar Blaine unfolded his long legs and climbed out
of the sports car.

Well, at least the most gruelling part of the journey is over with, he
remarked.

There was a police inspector waiting for them on the hard stand below
the Roberts Heights control tower as Shasa taxied the Rapide in and cut
the engines.  He came forward to meet them as Blaine and Shasa came down
the landing steps.

How is the investigation going?  Blaine demanded immediately after they
had shaken hands.  What have you found so far?  Nothing, Minister.  The
inspector shook his head.  We have checked over six hundred cases of
rifles.  it's a timeconsuming job.  But so far everything seems to be in
order.  How many cases in the stores?  Nine hundred and eighty., So you
have checked over half.  Blaine shook his head.

Let's go and have a look anyway., He settled his hat on his head and
buttoned his overcoat to the neck for there was a cold wind sweeping
across the airstrip, bringing memories of the snows of the Drakensberg
mountains, and the highveld grass was bleached silvery by the frosts of
late winter.  He and Shasa climbed into the back seat of the black
police Packard and neither of them spoke on the short journey into the
centre of Pretoria.

At the gates to the railway workshops there was a double guard of police
and military personnel.  They checked the occupants of the Packard
carefully, not visibly impressed by Blaine's status.

The chief inspector in charge of the investigation was in the office of
the workshop manager and his report had little to add to what they
already knew.  They had so far been unable to find any irregularity in
the production or packaging of weapons.

Give me the tour, Blaine ordered grimly, and the entire party, Blaine,
Shasa, the chief inspector and the workshop manager, went out on to the
main production floor.

Workshop, was hardly a correct description of the large factory that
they entered.  Originally built to service and repair the rolling stock
of the state-owned railway, it had been expanded and modernized until it
was capable of building its own locomotives from scratch.  Now the long
production line along which they picked their way was turning out
armoured cars for the desert war in North Africa.

The working of the factory had not been halted by the police
investigation and the cavernous sheds roofed with

corrugated iron echoed to the thunder of the steam presses and the
cacophony of the lathes and turret head drills.

How many men do you employ?  Blaine had to shout to make himself heard
in the uproar.

Almost three thousand altogether, we are working three shifts now.
Wartime production.  The manager took them through to the furthest
building.

This is where we turn out the small arms, he shouted.

Or rather the metal parts.  Barrel and blocks.  The woodwork is
manufactured by outside contractors.  Show us the finished articles and
the packing, Blaine ordered.  That's where the trouble is, if there is
trouble.  After assembly and checking, the completed rifles, British
Long Service No 4 Mark 1 in .303 calibre, were greased and wrapped in
yellow grease-proof paper, then packed in the long WD green wooden
cases, ten rifles to a case.  Finally the cases were loaded onto steel
pallets and trundled through to the despatch stores.

When they entered the despatch area there were a dozen uniformed police
constables working with at least fifty factory employees in blue
overalls.  Each case was being taken down from the tall stacks and
opened by one of the constables, then the wrapped rifles were taken out
and counted, repacked and the case lids relocked.

The checked cases were being stacked at the far end of the storehouse,
and Shasa saw immediately that only about fifty cases remained to be
opened and inspected.

The chief storekeeper hurried across from his desk and challenged Blaine
indignantly.  I don't know who you are but if you are the bloody fool
who ordered this, you need your arse kicked.  We have lost a day's
production.  There is a goods train at the siding and a convoy waiting
in Durban harbour to take these weapons to our boys up north. Shasa left
the group and went across to watch the working constables. 'No luck?  he
asked one of them.

We're wasting our time, the man grunted without looking up, and Shasa
silently reviled himself.  A day's war production lost because of him,
it was a dire responsibility and his sense of despondency increased as
he stood and watched the remaining cases opened, checked and resealed.

The constables assembled at the door of the stores and the overalled
factory employees went out through the tall sliding doors to resume
their posts on the production line.

The police inspector came back to where they stood in a small
disconsolate group.

Nothing, Minister.  I'm sorry.  We had to do it, Blaine said, glancing
at Shasa.  Nobody is to blame.  Too bloody true somebody is to blame,
the chief storeman broke in truculently.  Now that you've had your fun,
can I get on with loading the rest of the shipment?  Shasa stared at
him.  There was something about the man's behaviour that set off a
little warning tingle down his spine, the blustering defensive manner,
the shiftiness of his gaze.

Of course, he thought.  If there was a switch, this is where it would
take place, and this fellow would be in it to his neck.  His mind was
starting to slough off the inertia of disappointment and anti-climax.

All right, Blaine agreed.  It was a wild-goose chase.  You can get on
with your work.  Hold on, sir, Shasa intervened quietly, and he turned
back to the storeman.  How many railway trucks have you loaded already?
There it was again, the shift of the man's eyes, the slight hesitation.
He was going to lie.  Then he glanced involuntarily at the sheaf of
papers in the clipboard that lay on his desk beside the doors that led
out onto the loading bays.

Shasa crossed quickly to the desk and picked up the sheaf of loading
manifests.  Three trucks have already been loaded, he read from the
manifest.  Which are they?  They have been shunted away, the storeman
muttered sulkily.

Then let's have them shunted back here right away, Blaine intervened
briskly.

Blaine and Shasa stood together under the arc lamps on the concrete
loading quay while the first of the closed railway goods trucks was
unlocked and the sliding door opened.

The interior of the truck was loaded to the roof with green rifle cases.

if they are here, they will be at the bottom of the load, Shasa
suggested.  Whoever is responsible would get rid of the evidence as soon
as possible.  He'd make damned sure they were the first cases loaded.
Get down to the bottom cases, Blaine ordered sharply, and the top cases
were carried out and stacked on the quay.

Right!  Blaine pointed to the back of the truck.  Get that case out and
open it.  The lid came up and the constable let it fall to the concrete
floor with a clatter.

Sir!  he exclaimed.  Look at this.  Blaine stepped up beside him and
stared down into the open box, and then he looked up again quickly.

The chief storekeeper was hurrying across the floor of the shed towards
the doors at the far end.

Arrest that man!  Blaine shouted urgently, and two constables ran
forward and seized him.  He was struggling angrily as they dragged him
out onto the loading quay.

Blaine turned to Shasa, his expression grim and his eyes flinty. 'Well,
my boy, I hope you are satisfied.  You've given us a mountain of work
and a lot of sleepless nights ahead, he said.

Fifteen grave men sat around the long polished stinkwood table in the
panelled cabinet office and listened silently as Blaine malcomess made
his report.

There is no way of establishing with any certainty exactly how many
weapons are missing.  other large shipments have been sent out since the
first of the month and as yet neither of these has reached its
destination in Cairo.  They are still in transit but we must expect that
weapons are missing from both shipments.  I estimate some two thousand
rifles together with a million and a half rounds of ammunition.  The men
around the table stirred uneasily, but nobody spoke.

This is alarming, of course.  However, the truly disturbing aspect of
the business is the theft of some thirty to fifty Vickers machine-guns
from the same source.  This is incredible, Deneys Reitz muttered.  That
is enough to launch a nationwide rebellion.  it could be 1914

all over again.  We must make sure no word of this gets out.

It will cause panic.  We should also consider, Blaine went on, 'the tons
of explosives hijacked in the karoo.  Those would almost certainly be
used to disrupt communications and prevent deployment of our limited
military strength.  If there was to be a rebellion Please tell us,
Blaine, the prime minister held up a finger.

Firstly, do we have any indication of when we can expect them to come
out into the open and attempt their coup d'dtat?  No, Prime Minister.
The best I can do is an estimate based on our probable discovery of the
weapons theft.  They must have realized that the theft would be
discovered as soon as the first consignment reached Cairo, and almost
certainly they plan to move before that time.  When would the shipment
have reached Cairo?  Two weeks from now approximately.  So we must
expect that they will make the attempt within days, rather than weeks?
I'm afraid so, Prime Minister.  My next question, Blaine. How complete
is your investigation?  Do you have a full list of the ringleaders of
the OB and the stormjagers?  Not a full list, we have only about six
hundred names so far.  I think it includes almost all their key men,
but, of course, we can't have any way of being sure of that.  Thank you,
Blaine.  The prime minister tugged thoughtfully at his small silver
goatee beard.  His expression was almost serene, his blue eyes calm and
unworried.  They all waited for him to speak again.

How sensitive are the names on the list?  he asked.

There is the administrator of the Orange Free State.  Yes, we know about
him.  ,Welve members of Parliament, including one former cabinet
minister.  Parliamentary privilege, Field-Marshal Smuts murmured.

We can't touch them.  Then there are church leaders, at least four
high-ranking army officers, top civil servants, one assistant police
commissioner.  Blaine read the list through, and by the time he had
finished, the prime minister had already made up his mind.

We can't afford to wait, he said.  With the exception of the members of
parliament, I want detention and internment orders prepared for all the
others on the list of suspects.  I'll sign them as soon as they are
drafted.  in the meantime I want you to plan the simultaneous arrests of
all of them, and make provision for their incarceration. 'There are the
concentration camps built for Italian prisoners of war at Baviaanspoort
and Pietermaritzburg, Blaine pointed out.

Good, Field-Marshal Smuts agreed.  I want these men all safely behind
barbed-wire as soon as possible.  And I want the missing weapons and
explosives found, and found quickly.  We cannot afford to wait! Manfred
De La Rey said carefully.

Every hour is dangerous, every day brings us closer to the brink, a week
could spell disaster.  We are not ready.  We need time, one of the other
men in the first-class railway compartment cut in.  There were eight
men, including Manfred, in the compartment.  They had boarded the
southbound express separately at different stops over the last two
hundred miles.  The conductor of the train was a sympathizer, and there
were stormiagters in the corridors outside the compartment, acting as
sentries.  Nobody could reach them or eavesdrop on their conversation.

You promised us another ten days in which to complete the final
preparations.  We haven't got ten days, man.  Haven't you listened to
what I am telling you?  It can't be done, the man repeated stubbornly.

It can be done, Manfred raised his voice.  It has to be done! The
administrator intervened sternly.  Enough of that, gentlemen. Let's keep
the fighting for our enemies.  With an obvious effort Manfred moderated
his tone.  I apologize for my outburst.  However, I repeat that we have
no time to spare.  The removal of the weapons from the railway workshops
has been discovered, ten of our men there have been arrested.  One of
our men at Marshall Square has told us that they have received detention
orders for over two hundred of our senior members and that these are to
be served on Sunday, that is four days from now., We are aware of all
that, the administrator intervened again.  What we must do now is decide
whether we can afford to put the entire plan forward, or if it should be
abandoned.  I will listen to each of your opinions and then we will
vote.  We shall stand by the majority decision.  Let us hear first from
Brigadier Koopman.  They all looked to the army general.  He was in
civilian clothing but his military bearing was unmistakable.  He spread
a large-scale map on the fold-down table, and used it to illustrate his
report in a professionally dispassionate voice.  First he set out the
order of battle of the army, and the dispositions of the troops,
aircraft and armoured cars that remained in the country and then went
on, So you see that the two main troop concentrations are at the
infantry training barracks at Roberts Heights and at Durban awaiting
shipment for overseas duty.  With almost one hundred and sixty thousand
outside the country, these do not amount to more than five thousand men.
There are no modern aircraft, other than the fifty Harvard trainers.
This makes it feasible to immobilize the troops at their present
positions at least for the first few crucial days that it will take to
seize control.  This can be achieved by destroying all major road and
railway bridges, particularly those over the Vaal river, the Orange
river and the Umzindusi river.  He went on talking for another ten
minutes, and then summed up, We have our men placed in positions of
command, right up to the general staff, and they will be able to cushion
us from any forthright action by the army.  After that they will arrest
and hold the Smuts men on the general staff and bring the army in on our
side to support the new republican government.  One after another the
other men present made their reports.  Manfred was last to speak.

Gentlemen, he began.  Within the last twelve hours I have been in direct
radio contact with the German Abwehr through their representative in
Portuguese Angola.  He has relayed to us the assurances of the German
High Command and of the Fuhrer himself.  The German submarine supply
vessel Altmark is at present within three hundred nautical miles of Cape
Town carrying over five hundred tons of armaments.  She awaits only the
signal to steam to our aid.  He spoke quietly but persuasively, and he
sensed the mood swing in his favour.

When he finished there was a short but profound silence and then the
administrator said, We have all the facts before us now.  We must make
the decision.  It is this.  Before the government can arrest and
imprison us and the other legitimate leaders of the Volk, we put into
effect the plan.  We rise and depose the present government and take the
power into our own hands to put our nation back on the course to freedom
and justice.  I will ask each of you in turn, do you say "Yes" or do you
say "No?  Ja, said the first man.

Ek stern ja.  I say yes.  Ek stern ook ja, I also say yes.  At the end
the administrator summed up for them.  We are all agreed, there is not
one of us against the enterprise!

He paused and looked at Manfred De La Rey.  You have told us of a signal
to launch the rising.  Something that will turn the country on its head.
Can you tell us now what that signal will be?  The signal will be the
assassination of the traitor Jan Christian Smuts, Manfred said.

They stared at him in silence.  It was clear that even though they had
anticipated something momentous, none of them had expected this.

The details of this political execution have been carefully planned,
Manfred went on to assure them.  Three different contingency plans were
drawn up in Berlin, each for a different date, depending on the dictates
of circumstances.  The first plan, the earliest date, suits our present
purpose exactly.

Smuts will be executed this coming Saturday.  Three days from now - the
day before the detention orders are served on our leaders.  The silence
drew out a minute longer, then the administrator asked, Where?

How will it be done?  You do not need to know that.  I will do what is
necessary, alone and unaided.  It will be up to you to act quickly and
forcibly as soon as the news of Smuts death is released.  You must step
into the void he leaves and seize the reins of power., Let it be so,
said the administrator quietly.  We will be ready for the moment when it
comes, and may God bless our battle.  Of the eight men in the
compartment, only Manfred remained aboard when the express pulled out of
Bloemfontein station and began its long run southwards towards Cape
Town.

I have a permit to keep a firearm on the estate, Sakkie Van Vuuren, the
winery manager, told Manfred.  We use it to shoot the baboons that come
down from the mountains to raid the vineyards and orchards.  He led the
way down the steps into the cool gloom of the cellars.

Anybody who hears a few shots coming from the mountains will take no
notice of them, but if you are challenged, tell them you are employed by
the estate and refer them to me.  He opened the false front of the wine
cask and stood aside as Manfred opened one of the waterproof canisters.

First he lifted out the radio transmitter and connected the new
batteries which Van Vuuren had procured for him.  The radio was fitted
into a canvas rucksack and was readily portable.

He opened the second canister and brought out the rifle case.  In it was
a sniper's model 98 Mauser, with that superb action which permitted such
high breech pressure levels that the velocity of the 173 grain bullet
could be pushed UP over 2500 feet per second.  There were fifty rounds
of the 7-57 mm ammunition which had been specially hand-loaded by one of
the expert technicians at Deutsche Waffen und munitionsfabrik, and the
telescopic sight was by Zeiss.  Manfred fitted the telescopic sight to
the rifle and filled the magazine.  The rest of the ammunition he
repacked and then stowed the canisters away in the false-fronted cask.

Van Vuuren drove him up into one of the valleys of the Hottentots
Holland mountains

in his battered old Ford half tonner, and when the track at last petered
out, he drove back down the rocky winding trail.

and left him there

an Manfred watched him out of sight and then hefted his pack and rifle
and began to climb upwards.  He had plenty of time, there was no need to
hurry, but the hard physical exertion gave him pleasure and he went up
with long elastic strides, revelling in the flood of sweat on his face
and body.

He crossed the first range of the foothills, went down into the wooded
valley and then climbed again to one of the main peaks beyond. Near the
crest he stopped and set up the radio, stringing his aerials from the
tops of two cripplewood trees and orientating them carefully towards the
north.

Then he settled down with his back to a boulder and ate the sandwiches
that little Sarah had made for him.  The contact time with the Abwehr
agent in Luanda, the capitol of Portuguese Angola, 1500 hours Greenwich
Mean Time, and he had almost an hour to wait.

After he had eaten he took the Mauser in his lap and handled it
lovingly, refamiliarizing himself with the weapoWs feel and balance,
working the bolt action, bringing the butt to his shoulder and sighting
through the lens of the telescope at objects down the slope.

in Germany he had practised endlessly with this same rifle, and he knew
that at any range up to three hundred metres he could choose in which
eye he would shoot a man.

However, it was essential that he check the rifle to make absolutely
certain that the sights were still true.  He needed a target as close to
that of a human form as possible, but he could find nothing suitable
from where he sat.  He laid the rifle carefully aside, checked his
wristwatch and transferred his attention to the radio.

He set up the Morse key and turned to the page of his notebook on which
he had already reduced the message to code.  He flexed his fingers and
began to send, tapping the brass key with a fluid rapid movement, aware
that the operator at Luanda far in the north would recognize his style
and would accept that rather than his code name as proof of his
identity.

Eagle Base, this is White Sword.  On the fourth call he was answered.
The signal in his headphones was strong and clear.

Go ahead, White Sword!

Confirm plan one in force.  Repeat plan one.

Acknowledge.  There was no need for a long message that could increase
the chances of being traced or intercepted.  Everything had been
arranged with Teutonic attention to detail before he left Berlin.

Understand plan one.  Good luck.  Over and out from Eagle Base. 'Over
and out White Sword!

He rolled the aerial wires, repacked the transmitter, and was about to
swing it on his shoulder when an explosive barking cough echoed along
the cliffs and Manfred sank down flat behind the rock and reached for
the Mauser.  The wind favoured him and he settled down to wait.

He lay for almost half an hour without moving, still and intent,
scanning the valley floor below, before he saw the first movement
amongst the jumbled lichen-covered rocks and stunted protea bushes.

The baboons were moving in their usual foraging order, with half a dozen
young males in the van, the females and young in the centre, and three
huge grey patriarchal males in the rear guard.  The infants were slung
upside down below their mothers bellies, clinging with tiny paws to the
thick coarse belly fur and peering out with pink hairless faces.

The larger youngsters rode like jockeys perched on the backs of their
dams.  The three fighting bulls at the rear of the troop followed them,
swaggering arrogantly, knuckling the ground as they moved forward on
four legs, their heads held high, almost doglike, their muzzles long and
pointed, their eyes close-set and bright.

Manfred chose the largest of the three apes and watched him through the
lens of the sight.  He let him come on up the slope until he was only
three hundred metres from where he lay.

The bull baboon suddenly loped forward and with an agile bound reached
the top of a grey boulder the size of a small cottage.  He sat there,
perched on his hindquarters, resting his elbows on his knees, almost
human in his pose, and he opened his jaws in a cavernous yawn. His fangs
were pointed and yellow and as long as a man's forefinger.

Carefully Manfred took up the slack in the rear trigger until he felt
the hair trigger engage with an almost inaudible click, then he settled
the cross hairs of the telescopic sight on the baboon's forehead, and
held his aim for the hundredth part of a second.  He touched the front
trigger, while he still concentrated fixedly on the baboon's sloping
furry forehead and the rifle slammed back into his shoulder.  The shot
crashed out across the valley.  The echoes rang back from the cliffs in
a descending roll of thunder.

The bull baboon somersaulted backwards from his seat on the boulder, and
the rest of the troop fled back down the slope in screaming panic.

Manfred stood up, hoisted the pack onto his shoulders and picked his way
down the slope.  He found the ape's carcass huddled at the base of the
rock.  It still twitched and quivered in reflex but the top of the
animal's skull was missing.  It had been cut away as though by an axe
stroke at the level of the eyes and bright blood welled up through the
base of the brain pan and dribbled over the rocks.

Manfred rolled the carcass over with his foot and nodded with
satisfaction.  The special hollow-tipped bullet would decapitate a man
just as neatly, and the rifle had held true to within a finger's breadth
at three hundred metres.

Now I am ready as I will ever be, Manfred murmured and went down the
mountain.

Shasa had not been home to Weltevreden, nor had he seen Tara since he
and Blaine had flown home from Pretoria in the Rapide after the
discovery of the stolen weapons.

He had not left CID headquarters during that time.  He ate at the police
canteen and snatched a few hours, sleep in the dormitory that had been
set up on the floor above the operations room.  The rest of the time he
had been engrossed entirely in the preparations for the planned police
swoop.

There were almost a hundred and fifty suspects to be dealt with in Cape
Province alone, and for each the warrant had to be drawn, the expected
whereabouts of subjects charted, and police officers delegated to make
each separate arrest.

Sunday had been selected deliberately for almost all of the subjects
were devout Calvinists, members of the Dutch Reformed Church, and would
attend divine service that morning.  Their whereabouts could be
anticipated with a high degree of certainty and they would in all
probability be unsuspecting, in a religious frame of mind, and not in
the mood to offer any resistance to the arresting officers.

It was midday Friday before Shasa remembered that his grandfather's
birthday picnic was the following day and he rang Centaine at
Weltevreden from the police operations room.

,oh cheri, that is terrible news, Sir Garry will be so disappointed.  He
has asked for you every day since he arrived and we are all so looking
forward to seeing you.  I'm sorry, Mater.  Can't you get away to join
us, even for an hour?  That's just not possible.

Believe me, Mater, I am as disappointed as anyone.  You don't have to
come up the mountain, Shasa.  just drink a glass of champagne with us at
Weltevreden before we leave.  You can go back immediately and do
whatever it is you are doing that is so important.  For my sake, cheri,
won't you try?  She sensed that he was wavering.  Blaine and
Field-Marshal Smuts will be here.  They have both promised.  If you come
at eight o'clock, just to wish your grandfather a happy birthday, I
promise you can leave again before eight-thirty.  O all right mater, he
capitulated, and grinned into the telephone. 'Don't you find it boring
always to get your own way?, It is something I have learned to bear,
cheri, she laughed back at him.  Until tomorrow.  ,Until tomorrow, he
agreed.

I love you, cheri.  I love you too, Mater.  He hung up, feeling guilty
at having given in to her, and was about to ring Tara to tell her that
he wouldn't be able to escort her to the picnic when one of the
sergeants across the room called him.

Squadron Leader Courtney, this call is for you.  Who is it? 'She didn't
say, it's a woman, and Shasa smiled as he crossed the room.

Tara had anticipated him and called him first.

Hello, is that you Tara?  he said into the mouthpiece, and there was
silence except for the soft sound of somebody breathing nervously.  His
nerves snapped tight, and he lowered his voice, trying to make it
friendly and encouraging as he switched into Afrikaans.

This is Squadron Leader Courtney speaking.  Is that the lady I spoke to
before?  Ja.  It is me.  He recognized her voice, young, breathless and
afraid.

I am very grateful to you.  What you have done has saved many lives, the
lives of innocent people.  I saw nothing about the guns in the
newspapers, the woman whispered.

You can be proud of what you have done, he told her, and then on
inspiration added, Many people would have died, perhaps even women and
little children.  The words little children seemed to decide her and she
blurted out, There is still great danger.  They are planning something
terrible, White Sword is going to do something.

Soon, very soon.  I heard him say that it will be the signal, and it
will turn the nation on its head-, Can you tell me what it is? Shasa
asked, trying not to frighten her, keeping his voice low and reassuring.
What is this thing he plans?  I don't know.  I only know it will be very
soon.  Can you find out what it is?  I don't know, I can try.  For the
sake of everybody, the women and little children, will you try to find
out what it is?  Yes, I will try.  I will be here at this telephone-
then suddenly he remembered his promise to Centaine, or at this other
number, and he gave her the number at Weltevreden.  Try here first, and
the other number if I am not here. 'I understand., Can you tell me who
White Sword is?  He took a calculated risk.  Do you know his real name?
Immediately the connection crackled and was broken.  She had hung up. He
lowered the telephone and stared at it.  He sensed that he had
frightened her off for good with that last question, and dismay
overwhelmed him.

Something that will turn the nation on its head.  Her words haunted him,
and he was filled with an ominous sense of impending disaster.

Manfred drove sedately along the De Waal Drive past the university
buildings.  it was past midnight, and the streets were almost deserted
except for a few Friday-night revellers wending their unsteady way
homeward.  The car he was driving was a nondescript little Morris and
the rifle was in the boot under a tattered piece of tarpaulin.  He was
dressed in a railwayman's blue overalls over which he wore a thick
fisherman's jersey and a heavy greatcoat.

He was moving into position now to avoid the danger of being seen on the
mountain during daylight carrying a rifle.

favoured On a weekend the slopes of Table Mountain were by hikers and
rock climbers, birdwatchers and picnickers, boy scouts and lovers.

He passed the forestry station and turned into Rhodes Avenue, then
followed the road up past the Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens with the
bulk of the mountain blotting out half the starry night sky.  The road
wound around the bottom slopes through the dark forests.  Before he
reached the Constantia Nek pass he slowed down, and checked in his
rearview mirror to make certain there was no vehicle following him. Then
he switched off his headlights and turned off sharply onto the forestry
track.

He drove at a walking pace, keeping in low gear until he reached the
forestry gate.  Then he stopped and, leaving the engine idling, went to
the gate and tried his key in the lock.

Roelf had given him the key and assured him that the forester was a
friend.  it turned easily, and Manfred drove the Morris through and
closed the gate behind him.  He hooked the staple of the padlock through
the chain, but did not lock it.

He was on the bottom stretch of the bridle path now and drove on up the
narrow track as it ascended the slope in a series of tight hairpins.  He
passed the contour path that girdled the mountain three hundred metres
above sea level.

A mile further on, just below the summit he reversed the Morris off the
bridle path so that it was out of sight of a casual hiker. From the boot
he took the Mauser and wrapped it carefully in a light tarpaulin.  Then
he locked the doors of the Morris and went back down towards the contour
path carrying the rifle across his shoulder.  He used his flashlight as
little as possible and then only for quick glimpses of the pathway,
shielding the beam with his body.

Within twenty minutes he intercepted the pathway that climbed directly
up Skeleton Gorge and he flashed his light onto the square concrete
signpost and read the legend printed on it.

SMUTS TRACK

The concrete block resembled a tombstone rather than a signpost, and he
smiled grimly at the appropriateness of the name upon it.  The old
field-marshal had made this ascent the most famous of all routes to the
summit.

Manfred climbed quickly, without resting, 1200 feet up Skeleton Gorge
until he came up past Breakfast Rock over the crest, onto the tableland.
Here he paused for a moment to look back.  Far below him the Constantia
valley huddled in the night, lit by only a star dusting of lights.  He
turned his back upon it and began his final preparations.  He had
scouted the site two days previously, and he had chosen the stance from
which he would fire and paced out the exact range from there to the
point on the pathway where a man would become visible as he came out
onto the summit.

Now he moved into his stance.  It was a hollow between two boulders,
lightly screened by mountain scrub.  He spread the tarpaulin over the
low wiry bracken and then lay full length upon it, flattening the plants
into a comfortable mattress under him.

He wriggled into firing position, cradled the butt of the

Mauser into his cheek and aimed at the head of the pathway 250 metres
away.  Through the Zeiss lens he could make out the individual branches
of the bush that grew beside the path starkly silhouetted against the
soft glow of light from the valley beyond.

He laid the weapon on the tarpaulin in front of him, ready for instant
use.  Then he pulled the collar of the greatcoat up around his ears and
huddled down.  It was going to be a long cold wait, and to pass the time
he reviewed all the planning that had led him to this place, and the
odds that tomorrow morning, at a little before or a little after
ten-thirty, his quarry would come up the path that bore his name and
step into the cross hairs of the Zeiss scope.

The dossier on Jan Christian Smuts meticulously assembled by the Abwehr
in Berlin, which he had studied so avidly, had shown that for the last
ten years, on every anniversary of this date, the field-marshal had kept
this arrangement with an old friend, and now the fate of a nation
depended on him doing so once again.

Shasa drove through the Anreith gates and up the long driveway to the
chAteau.  There were a dozen motor cars parked in front of Weltevreden,
Blaine's Bentley amongst them.  He parked the jag beside it and checked
his wristwatch.  It was ten minutes past eight o'clock. He was late and
Mater was going to be huffed, she was an absolute stickler for
punctuality.

She surprised him again by springing up from the long table in the
dining-room and running to embrace him.  The entire party of twenty was
assembled for one of Weltevreden's celebrated breakfasts.  The buffet
sideboard groaned under the weight of silver and food.  The servants in
their long white kanzas and red pillbox fezes burst into beaming grins
when they saw Shasa and a welcoming buzz of pleasure went up from the
guests seated at the stinkwood table.

They were all there, everybody Shasa loved, Grandpa Garry at the head of
the table, sprightly as a phrie; Anna beside him, her red face creasing
into an infinity of smiles like a friendly bulldog; Blaine; Tara, as
lovely as this spring morning; Matty, all freckles and carroty red hair;
the ou Baas; and of course Mater.  Only David was missing.

Shasa went to each of them in turn, laughing and exchanging banter,
embracing and shaking hands and kissing.  There were whoops and whistles
when he pecked Tara's blushing cheek.  He handed Grandpater Garry his
present and stood beside him as he unwrapped the specially bound first
editions of Burchell's Travels and exclaimed with delight.

He shook hands with the Ou Baas respectfully and glowed with pleasure at
his quiet commendation, Good work you are doing, Kerel. Finally he
exchanged a quick word with Blaine before loading his plate at the
sideboard and taking the chair between Tara and Mater.

He refused the champagne.  -we got work to do today, and played with
Tara's foot under the table while he joined in the hilarity that
resounded around the long table.

Too soon they were all rising and the women went to get their coats
while the men went out to the cars and made certain that the rugs and
picnic baskets were loaded.

I'm sorry you can't come with us, Shasa.  Grandpater Garry took him
aside.  I hoped we could have a chat, but I've heard from Blaine how
important your work is.  I'll try and get back here tomorrow night.  The
pressure should be off by then.  I won't go back to Natal until we've
been able to spend a little time together.  You are the one to carry on
the Courtney name, my one and only grandson.  Shasa felt a rush of deep
affection for this wise and gentle old man; in some strange way the fact
that they had both suffered mutilation, Sir Garry's leg and Shasa's eye,
seemed to have forged an even stronger bond between them.

It's years since I have been up to visit you and Anna at Theuniskraal,
Shasa burst out impulsively.  May I come to spend a couple of weeks with
you?  Nothing would give us greater pleasure, Sir Garry hugged him, and
at that moment Field-Marshal Smuts came across.

Still talking, old Garry, do you ever stop?  Come along now, we have a
mountain to climb, and the last one to the top will be sent to an
old-age home.  The old friends smiled at each other.  They could have
been brothers, both slight of build but wiry and dapper, both with
little silver goatee beards and disreputable old hats upon their heads.

Forward!  Sir Garry brandished his cane, linked his arm through the
field-marshal's and led him to the back seat of Centaine's yellow
Daimler.

The Daimler led the procession, followed by Blaine's Bentley and Tara
blew Shasa a kiss as it passed.  He stood on the front steps of
Weltevreden and it was very quiet after they had all gone.

He turned back into the house and went upstairs to his own room,
selected a batch of clean shirts, socks and underpants from his drawers
and stuffed them into a grip.

On the way downstairs he turned aside, went into Centaine's study and
picked up the telephone.  One of the duty sergeants in the operations
room at CID headquarters answered.

Hello, Sergeant.  Have there been any messages for me?  Hold on, sir,
I'll have a look.  He was back in a few seconds.  Only one, sir, ten
minutes ago.  A woman wouldn't leave her name.  Thank you, Sergeant,
Shasa hung up quickly.  He found that his hand was trembling and his
breath had shortened.

A woman, wouldn't leave her name.  It had to be her.  Why hadn't she
called him here?  She had the number.

He stood over the phone, willing it to ring.  Nothing happened. After
five minutes he began to pace the floor moving restlessly between the
wide french windows and the huge ormolu.  Louis Quatorze desk, watching
the silent telephone.  He was undecided, should he go back to CID
headquarters in case she called there again, but what if she came
through here?  Should he ring the sergeant, but that would block the
line.

Come on!  he pleaded.  Come on!  He glanced at his wristwatch,
thirty-five minutes he had wasted in indecision.

I'll have to pack it up.  Can't stand here all day., He went to the
desk.  He reached for the instrument, but before he could touch it, it
rang.  He hadn't been ready for it, the sound raked his nerves shrilly,
and he snatched it up.

Squadron Leader Courtney, he spoke in Afrikaans.  Is it you, Mevrou?  I
forgot the number, I had to go back to the house to fetch it, she said.
Her voice was rough with exertion, she had been running.

I couldn't call before, there were people, my husband, she broke off.
She had said too much.

That is all right.  Don't worry, everything is all right., No, she said.
It's terrible what they are going to do.  It's just terrible.  Do you
want to tell me?  They are going to kill the field-marshal The
field-marshal?  The Ou Baas, Field-Marshal Smuts.  He could not speak
for a moment, and then he rallied.  Do you know when they plan to do it?
Today.  They will shoot him today. 'That's not possible, he did not want
to believe it.  The Ou Baas has gone up Table Mountain today.  He's on a
picnic with, Yes! Yes!  The woman was sobbing.  On the mountain.

White Sword is waiting for him on the mountain., Oh my God!  Shasa
whispered.  He felt as though he were paralysed.  His legs were filled
with concrete and a great weight crushed his lungs so that for a moment
he could not breathe.

You are a brave woman, he said.  Thank you for what you have done.  He
dropped the telephone onto its cradle and snatched open the drawer of
Centaine's desk.  The gold-engraved Beretta pistols were in their
presentation case.  He lifted one of them out of its nest of green baize
and checked the load.

There were six in the magazine and an extra magazine in a separate slot
in the case.  He thrust the pistol into his belt and the magazine into
his pocket and turned for the door.

The pistol was useless at anything farther than point-blank range, but
the hunting rifles were locked in the cabinet in the gunroom, the
ammunition was kept separately, his key was in the jag, it would take
precious minutes to fetch it, open the cabinet, unchain his 9.3
Marmlicher, find the ammunition, he could not afford the time.  The
picnic party had a start of nearly forty minutes on him.  They might be
halfway up the mountain by now.  All the people he loved were there, and
an assassin was waiting for them.

He sprinted down the steps and sprang into the open cockpit of the jag.
She started with a roar; he spun her in a tight circle, gravel spraying
from under the back tyres, and went down the long drive with the needle
climbing quickly to the eighty mph notch.  He went out through the
Anreith gates, and into the narrow curves and dips as the road skirted
the base of the mountain.  More than once he nearly ran out of road as
the jag snarled and screeched through the turns, but it was fully
fifteen minutes before he snaked her in through the gates of
Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens and at last pulled into the parking area
behind the curator's office.  The other vehicles were there, parked in a
straggling line, the Daimler and the Bentley and Deneys Reitzs Packard,
but the parking area was deserted.

He took one quick look up at the mountain that towered 2000 feet above
him.  He could make out the path as it climbed out of the forest and
zigzagged up the gut of Skeleton Gorge, passing the pimple of Breakfast
Rock on the skyline and then crossing the rim onto the tableland.

There was a line of moving specks on the pathway, just emerging from the
forest.  The Ou Baas and Grandpater were setting their usual furious
pace, proving to each other how fit they were, and as he shaded his eyes
he recognized Mater's yellow dress, and Tara's turquoise skirt, just
tiny flecks of colour against the grey and green wall of the mountain.
They were trailing far behind the leaders.

He began to run.  He took the first easy slope at a trot, pacing
himself.  He reached the 300-metre contour path and paused beside the
concrete signpost to draw a few long breaths.  He surveyed the track
ahead.

It went up very steeply from here, jigging through the forest, following
the bank of the stream, a series of uneven rocky steps.  He went at it
fast, but his town shoes had thin leather soles and gave him little
purchase.  He was panting wildly and his shirt was soaked through with
sweat as he came out of the forest.  Still almost 1000 feet to the top,
but he saw immediately that he had gained on the picnic party.

They were strung out down the pathway.  The two figures leading were
Grandpater and the Ou Baas, at this distance it was impossible to
distinguish between them, but that was Blaine a few paces behind them.
He would be hanging back so as not to force the older men to a pace
beyond their strength.  The rest of the party were in groups and
singles, taking up half the slope, with the women far in the rear.

He drew a deep breath and shouted.  The women paused and looked back
down the slope.

Stop!  he yelled with all his lung power.  Stop!  One of the women
waved, it was probably Marty, then they began to climb again. They had
not recognized him, nor had they understood the command to stop.  They
had taken him for another friendly hiker.  He was wasting time, the
leaders were just under the crest of the summit.

Shasa began to climb with all his strength, leaping over the uneven
footing, forcing himself to ignore the burning of his lungs and the
numbing exhaustion of his legs, driving himself upwards by sheer force
of will.

Tara looked back when he was only ten feet below her.

Shasa!  she cried, delighted but surprised.  What are you doing - ?  He
brushed past her.  Can't stop, he grunted, and went on up, passing Anna
and then Mater.

What is it, Shasa?  Later!  There was no wind for words, his whole
existence was in his agonized legs, and the sweat poured into his eye,
blurring his vision.

He saw the leaders make the last short traverse before going over the
top, and he stopped and tried to shout again.

it came out as an agonized wheeze, and as he watched Grandpater and the
Ou Baas disappeared over the crest of the slope with Blaine only twenty
paces behind them.

The shot was dulled by distance, but even so Shasa recognized the sharp
distinctive crack of a Mauser.

From somewhere he found new strength and he flew at the slope, leaping
from rock to rock.  The single shot seemed to echo and re-echo through
his head, and he heard somebody shouting, or perhaps it was only the
wild sobbing of his breath and the thunder of his blood in his own
eardrums.

Manfred De La Rey lay all that night in his hide.  At sunrise he stood
up and swung his arms, squatted and twisted to loosen his muscles and
banish the chill that had soaked through the overcoat into his bones. He
moved a few paces back and emptied his bladder.

Then he stripped off the overcoat and the jersey,, both had been bought
from a second-hand clothes dealer on the Parade.  They were unmarked and
could never be traced to him.  He bundled them and stuffed them under a
rock.  Then he settled back in his hide, stretched out on the tarpaulin.

A few blades of grass were obscuring his line of fire and he broke them
off and aimed at the head of the path.

His aim was clear and uninterrupted.  He worked a cartridge from the
magazine into the breech of the Mauser, checking it visually as it slid
home, and he locked the bolt down.

Once more he took his aim, and this time he curled his finger round the
rear trigger and carefully set the hair trigger with that crisp
satisfying little click.  Then he pushed the safety-catch over with his
thumb and laid the rifle on the tarpaulin in front of him.

He froze into immobility.  Patient as a leopard in a tree above a
water-hole, only his yellow eyes alive, he let the hours drift by, never
for an instant relaxing his vigil.

When it happened, it happened with the abruptness that might have taken
another watcher by surprise.  There was no warning, no sound of
footsteps or voices.  The range was too long for that.  Suddenly a human
figure appeared on the head of the path, silhouetted against the blue of
the sky.

Manfred was ready for it.  He lifted the rifle to his shoulder with a
single fluid movement and his eye went naturally to the aperture of the
lens.  He did not have to pan the telescopic sight, the image of the man
appeared instantly in his field of vision, enlarged and crisply focused.

It was an old man, with thin and narrow shoulders, wearing an open-neck
white shirt and a Panama hat that was yellow with age.  His silver
goatee beard sparkled in the bright spring sunshine.  The unwavering
cross hairs of the telescope were already perfectly aligned on the exact
centre of his narrow chest, a hand's breadth below the vee of his open
shirt.  No fancy head shot, Manfred had decided, take him through the
heart.

He touched the hair trigger and the Mauser clapped in his eardrums, and
the butt drove back into his shoulder.

He saw the bullet strike.  It flapped the loose white shirt against the
skinny old chest and Manfred's vision was so heightened that he even saw
the bullet exit.  It flew out of the old man's back on a long pink tail
of blood and living tissue like a flamingo's feather, and as the frail
body was plucked out of sight into the grass, the cloud of blood
persisted, hanging in the clear morning air for the thousandth part of a
second before it settled.

Manfred rolled to his feet and started to run.  He had plotted every
yard of his escape route to the Morris, and a savage elation gave
strength to his legs and speed to his feet.

Behind him somebody shouted, a plaintive bewildered sound, but Manfred
did not check or look back.

Shasa came over the crest at a full run.  The two men were

kneeling beside the body that lay in the grass at the side of the track.
They looked up at Shasa, both their faces stricken.

Shasa took one look at the body as it lay face down.  The bullet must
have been a dum-durn to inflict such a massive exit wound.  It had
carved a hole through the chest cavity into which he could have thrust
both his fists.

There was no hope.  He was dead.  He hardened himself.

There would be time for grief later.  Now was the time for vengeance.

Did you see who did it?  he gasped.

Yes.  Blaine jumped to his feet.  I got a glimpse of him.

He cut back around Oudekraal Kop, he said, dressed in blue. Shasa knew
this side of the mountain intimately, every path and cliff, every gorge
and gully between Constantia Nek and the Saddle.

The killer had turned around the foot of the kop, he had a start of less
than two minutes.

The bridle path, Shasa gasped He is heading for the bridle path.

I'll try and cut him off at the top of Nursery Ravine.  He started to
run again, back towards Breakfast Rock.

Shasa, be careful Blaine yelled after him.  He has the rifle with him, I
saw it.  The bridle path was the only way a vehicle could reach the
tableland, Shasa reasoned as he ran, and this had been so carefully
planned that the killer must have an escape vehicle.  it had to be
parked somewhere on the bridle path.

The footpath made a wide loop around Oudekraal Kop, then came back to
the edge and ran along the cliff top past the head of Nursery Ravine
until it intersected the bridle path half a mile farther on.  There was
another rough, littleused path that cut this side of the Kop, along the
cliff top.

The beginning was difficult to find and a mistake would lead into a dead
end against the precipice, but if he found it he could cut a quarter of
a mile off the route.

He found the path and turned off onto it.  At two places the track was
overgrown and he had to struggle through interlaced branches, at anot.
at a spot at the edge the track had washed away.  He had to back up and
take a run at it, jumping over the gap with five hundred feet of open
drop below him.  He landed on his knees, clawed himself to his feet and
kept running.

He burst out unexpectedly into the main footpath and collided at full
tilt with the blue-overalled killer coming in the opposite direction.

He had a fleeting impression of the man's size and the breadth of his
shoulders, and then they were down together, locked chest to chest,
grappling savagely, rolling down the slope of the path.  The impact had
knocked the rifle out of the killer's hand, but Shasa felt the springy
hardness and the bulk of his muscle, and the first evidence of the man's
strength shocked him.  He knew instantly that he was out-matched.
Against his fiercest resistance the man rolled him onto his back and
came up on top of him, straddling him.

Their faces were inches apart.  The man had a thick dark curling beard
that was sodden with sweat, his nose was twisted and his brows were
dense and black, but it was the eyes that struck terror into Shasa. They
were yellow and somehow dreadfully familiar.  However, they galvanized
Shasa, transforming his terror into superhuman strength.

He wrenched one arm free and rolled the killer over far enough to yank
the Beretta pistol from his own belt.  He had not loaded a cartridge
into the chamber, but he struck upwards with the short barrel, smashing
it into the man's temple, and he heard the steel crack on the bone of
the skull.

The man's grip slackened and he fell back.  Shasa wriggled to his knees,
fumbling to load the Beretta.  With a metallic snicker the slide pushed
a cartridge into the chamber, and he lifted the barrel.  He had not
realized how close they had rolled to the clifftop.  He was kneeling on
the very brink, and as he tried to steady his aim on that bearded head,
the killer jack-knifed his body and drove both feet into Shasa's chest.

Shasa was hurled backwards.  The pistol fired but the shot

went straight into the air, and he found himself falling free as he went
over the edge of the cliff.  He had a glimpse down the precipice; there
was open drop for hundreds of feet, but he fell less than ten of those
before he wedged behind a pine sapling that had found a foothold in a
cleft of the rock.

He hung against the cliff face, his legs dangling free, winded and
dazed, and he looked up.  The killer's head appeared over the edge of
the cliff, those strange yellow eyes glared at him for an instant and
then disappeared.  Shasa heard his boots scrabble on the pathway, and
then the unmistakable sound of a rifle bolt being loaded and cocked.

He is going to finish me off, he thought, and only then realized that he
still had the Beretta in his right hand.

Desperately he hooked his left elbow over the pine sapling and pointed
the Beretta up at the rim of the cliff above his head.

Once more the killer's head and shoulders appeared against the sky, and
he was swinging the long barrel of the Mauser downwards; but the weapon
was awkward to point at this angle and Shasa fired an instant before it
could bear.

He heard the light bullet of the pistol strike against flesh, and the
killer grunted and disappeared from view.  A moment afterwards he heard
someone else shout from a distance, and recognized Blaine's voim Then
the killer's running footsteps moved swiftly away as he set off along
the path once more, and a minute later Blaine looked down at Shasa from
the clifftop.

Hold on!  Blaine's face was flushed with exertion and his voice
unsteady.  He pulled the thick leather belt from his trouser top and
buckled it into a loop.

Lying flat on his belly at the top of the cliff, he lowered the looped
belt and Shasa hooked his arm through it.  Even though Blaine was a
powerful man with abnormal arm and chest development from polo practice,
they struggled for minutes before he could drag Shasa over the top of
the cliff.

They lay together for a few moments; and then Shasa pulled himself
unsteadily to his feet and staggered off along the pathway in pursuit of
the fugitive.  Within a dozen paces Blaine pulled ahead of him, running
strongly and his example spurred Shasa.  He kept up, and Blaine gasped
over his shoulder.

Blood!  He pointed to the wet red speckles on a flat stone in the
pathway.  You hit him" They came out onto the wide bridle path, and
started down, running shoulder to shoulder now, helped by the gradient
of the descent, but they had not reached the first hairpin bend when
they heard an engine start in the forest below.

He's got a car!  Blaine panted as the engine whined into a crescendo,
then the sound of it receded swiftly.  They pulled up and listened to it
dwindle into silence.  Shasa's legs could hold him up no longer.  He
sank into a heap in the middle of the road.

There was a telephone at the Cecilia Forestry Station and Shasa got
through to Inspector Nel at CID headquarters and gave him a description
of the killer.

You'll have to move fast.  The man has obviously got his escape planned.
The mountain club kept a lightweight stretcher at the forestry station,
for this mountain took many human lives each year. The forester gave
them six of his black labourers to Carry it, and accompanied them back
up the bridle path and along the mountain rim to the head of Skeleton
Gorge.

The women were there.  Centaine and Anna were in tears, clinging to each
other for comfort.  They had spread one of the rugs over the dead man.

Shasa knelt beside the body and lifted the corner of the rug.  In death
Sir Garry Courtney's features had fallen in, so that his nose was arched
and beaky, his closed eyelids were in deep cavities, but there was about
him a gentle dignity so that he resembled the death mask of a fragile
Caesar.

Shasa kissed his forehead and the skin was cool and velvety smooth
against his lips.

When he stood up, Field-Marshal Smuts laid a hand of comfort on his
shoulder.  I'm sorry, my boy, the old fieldMarshal said.  That bullet
was meant for me., Manfred De La Rey pulled off the road, steering with
one hand.  He did not leave the driver's seat of the Morris, and he kept
the engine running while he unbuttoned the front of his overalls.

The bullet had entered just below and in front of his armpit, punching
into the thick pad of the pectoral muscle and it had angled upwards.  He
could find no exit wound, the bullet was still lodged in his body, and
when he groped gently around the back of his own shoulder, he found a
swelling that was so tender that he almost screamed involuntarily as he
touched it.

The bullet was lying just under the skin, it did not appear to have
penetrated the chest cavity.  He wadded his handkerchief over the wound
in his armpit and buttoned the overalls.  He checked his watch.  It was
a few minutes before eleven o'clock, just twenty-three minutes since he
had fired the shot that would set his people free.

A sense of passionate soaring triumph overrode the pain of his wound. He
pulled back onto the road and drove sedately around the base of the
mountain, down the main road through Woodstock.  At the gates of the
railway yards he showed his pass to the gatekeeper and went through to
park the Morris outside the restrooms for off-duty firemen and engine
drivers.

He left the Mauser under the seat of the Morris.  Both the weapon and
the vehicle would be taken care of.  He crossed quickly to the back door
of the restroom and they were waiting for him inside.

Roelf leapt to his feet anxiously as he saw the blood on the blue
overalls.

you all right?  What happened?  Smuts is dead, Manfred said, and his
savage joy was transmitted to them.  They did not cheer or speak, but
stood quietly, savouring the moment on which history would hinge.

Roelf broke the silence after a few seconds.  You are hurt. While one of
the stormjagers went out and drove the

Morris away, Roelf helped Manfred strip off his soiled overalls.

There was very little blood now, but the flesh around the wound was
swollen and bruised.  The bullet-hole itself was a black puncture that
wept watery pink lymph.  Roelf dressed and bound it up with bandages
from a railway firstaid kit.

Because Manfred had very little use of his left arm, Roelf lathered the
black beard and shaved it off with a straight razor for him.  With the
beard gone Manfred was years younger, handsome and clean-cut once again,
but pale from loss of blood and the weakness of his wound.  They helped
him into a clean pair of overalls and Roelf set the fireman's cap on his
head.

We will meet again soon, Roelf told him.  And I am proud to be your
friend.  From now on glory will follow you all the days of your life.
The engine driver came forward.  We must go, he said.

Roelf and Manfred shook hands and then Manfred turned away and followed
the driver out of the restroom and down the platform to the waiting
locomotive.

The police stopped the northbound goods train at Worcester Station. They
opened and searched all the trucks and a constable climbed into the cab
of the locomotive and searched that also.

What is the trouble?  the engine driver demanded.

There has been a murder.  Some bigwig was shot on Table Mountain this
morning.  We've got a description of the killer.

There are police roadblocks on all the roads and we are searching every
motor vehicle and ship and train.  Who was killed?  Manfred asked, and
the constable shrugged.

I don't know, my friend, but judging by the fuss it's somebody
important.  He climbed down from the cab, and a few minutes later the
signals changed to green and they rolled out of the station heading
north.

By the time they reached Bloemfontein, Manfred's shoulder had swollen
into a hard purple hump and the pain was insupportable.  He sat hunched
in a corner of the cab, moamng softly, teetering on the brink of
consciousness, the rustle of dark wings filling his head.

Roelf had telephoned ahead, and there were friends to meet him and
smuggle him out of the Bloemfontein railway yards.

Where are we going?  A doctor, they told him, and reality broke up into
a patchwork of darkness and pain.

He was aware of the choking reek of chloroform, and when he woke he was
in a bed in a sunny but monastically furnished room.  The shoulder was
bound up in crisp white bandages, and despite the lingering nausea of
the anaesthetic, he felt whole again.

There was a man sitting in the chair beside the window, and as soon as
he realized Manfred was awake, he came to him.

How do you feel?  Not too bad.  Has it happened, the rising? Have our
people seized power?  The man looked at him strangely.  You do not know?
he asked.

I only know that we have succeeded,, Manfred began, but the man fetched
a newspaper and laid it on the bed.  He stood beside Manfred as he read
the headlines:

ASSASSINATION ON TABLE MOUNTAIN

OB BLAMED FOR KILLING OF PROMINENT HISTORIAN

SMUTS ORDERS ARREST AND INTERNMENT OF 600

Manfred stared uncomprehendingly at the news-sheet, and the man told
him, You killed the wrong man.  Smuts has the excuse he wanted. All our
leaders have been seized, and they are searching for you. There is a
man-hunt across the land.

You cannot stay here.  We expect the police to be here at any minute.
Manfred was passed on and he left the city riding in the back of a truck
under a load of stinking dry hides.  The Ossewa Brandwag had been
decimated by the arrests, and those members remaining at liberty were
shaken and afraid, all of them running for cover.  None of them wanted
to take the risk of harbouring the fugitive.  He was passed on again and
again.

The plan had seen no further ahead than the assassination and successful
revolt, after which Manfred would have emerged as a Volk hero and taken
his rightful place in the councils of the republican government.  Now it
was run and hide, sick and weak, a price of five thousand pounds on his
head.  Nobody wanted him; he was a dangerous risk and they passed him on
as quickly as they could find someone else to take him.

in the published lists of those arrested and interned in the government
crackdown, he found many names he knew, and with dismay he read Roeffs
name, and that of the Reverend Tromp Bierman amongst them. He wondered
how Sarah, Aunt Trudi and the girls would fare now, but he found it
difficult to think or concentrate, for despair had unmanned him, and he
knew the terror of a hunted and wounded animal.

it took eight days to make the journey to Johannesburg.

He had not deliberately set out for the Witwatersrand, but circumstances
and the whim of his helpers led him that way.  By rail and truck and,
later, when the wound began to heal and his strength returned, at night
and on foot across the open veld, he at last reached the city.

He had an address, his last contact with the brotherhood and he took the
tramcar from the main railway station along the Braamfontein ridge and
watched the street numbers as they passed.

The number he needed was 36.  It was one in a row of semi-detached
cottages, and he started to rise to leave the tramcar at the next stop.

Then he saw the blue police uniform in the doorway of number 36 and he
sank down in his seat again and rode the tramcar to its terminus.

He left it there and went into a Greek cafe across the road.

He ordered a cup of coffee, paying for it with his last few coins, and
sipped it slowly, hunched over the cup, trying to think.

He had avoided a dozen police roadblocks and searches in these last
eight days, but he sensed that he had exhausted his luck.  There was no
hiding-place open to him any longer.

The road led from here on to the gallows.

He stared out of the greasy plate-glass window of the cafe

and the street sign across the road caught his eye.  Something stirred
in his memory, but it eluded his first efforts to grasp it. Then
suddenly he felt the lift of his spirits and another weak glimmer of
hope.

He left the cafe and followed the road whose name he had recognized. The
area deteriorated quickly into a slum of shanties and hovels and he saw
no more white faces on the rutted unmade street.  The black faces at the
windows or in the reeking alleyways watched him impassively across that
unfathomable void which separates the races in Africa.

He found what he was looking for.  It was a small general dealer's store
crowded with black shoppers, noisy and laughing, the women with their
babies strapped upon their backs, bargaining across the counter for
sugar and soap, paraffin and salt, but the hubbub descended into silence
when a white man entered the shop, and they gave way for him
respectfully, not looking directly at him.

The proprietor was an elderly Zulu with a fluffy beard of white wool,
dressed in a baggy Western-style suit.  He left the black woman he was
serving and came to Manfred, inclining his head deferentially to listen
to Manfred's request.

Come with me, Nkosi.  He led Manfred through to the storeroom at the
back of the shop.

You will have to wait, he said, perhaps a long time, and he left him
there.

Manfred slumped down on a pile of sugar sacks.  He was hungry and
exhausted and the shoulder was starting to throb again.  He fell asleep
and was roused by a hand on his shoulder and a deep voice in his ear.

How did you know where to look for me?  Manfred struggled to his feet.
My father told me where to find you, he answered.  Hello, Swart Hendrick
It has been many years, little Manie.  The big Ovambo grinned at him
through the black gap of missing teeth; his head, laced with scars, was
black and shiny as a cannonball.

Many years, but I never doubted we would meet again.

Never once in all those years.  The gods of the wilderness have bound us
together, little Manie.  I knew you would come.  The two men sat alone
in the back room of Swart Hendrick's house.  it was one of the few
brick-built dwellings in the shanty town of Drake's Farm. However, the
bricks were unbaked and the building was not so ostentatious as to stand
out from the hovels that crowded close around it.  Swart Hendrick had
long ago learned not to draw the attention of the white police to his
wealth.

In the front room the women were cooking and working, while the children
bawled or shouted with laughter round their feet.  As befitted his
station in life, Swart Hendrick had six town wives who lived together in
an amiable symbiotic relationship.  The possessive jealousy of
monogamistic western women was totally alien to them.  Senior wives took
a major part in the selection of the junior wives and gained
considerable prestige from their multiplicity, nor did they resent the
maintenance sent to the country wives and their offspring or their
spouse's periodic visits to the country kraal to add to the number of
those offspring.  They considered themselves all part of one family.
When the children from the country were old enough to be sent into the
city for the furtherance of their education and fortune, they found
themselves with many fostermothers and could expect the same love and
discipline as they had received in the kraal.

The smaller children had the run of the house and one of them crawled
mother-naked into Swart Hendrick's lap as he sat on his carved stool the
sign of rank of a tribal chieftain.

Although he was deep in discussion with Manfred, he fondled the little
one casually, as he would a favourite puppy, and when the beer pot was
empty, he clapped his hands and one of the junior wives, the pretty
moon-faced Zulu or the nubile Basuto with breasts as round and hard as
ostrich eggs would bring in a new pot and kneel before Hendrick to
present it to him.

So, little Manie, we have spoken of everything, and said all that is to
be said, and we come back to the same problem.  Swart Hendrick lifted
the beer pot and swallowed a mouthful of the thick white bubbling gruel.
He smacked his lips, then wiped the half moon of beer from his upper
lipwith the back of his forearm and handed the pot across to Manfred.

That problem is this.  At every railway station and on every road the
white police are searching for you.  They have even offered a price for
you, and what a price, little Manie.  They will give five thousand
pounds for you.  How many cattle and women could a man buy with that
amount of money?  He broke off to consider the question and shook his
head in wonder at the answer.  You ask me to help you to leave
Johannesburg and to cross the great river in the north.  What would the
white police do if they caught me?  Would they hang me on the same tree
as they hang you, or would they only send me to break rocks in the
prison of Ou Baas Smuts and King Georgy?  Swart Hendrick sighed
theatrically.  It is a heavy question, little Manie.  Can you give me an
answer?  You have been as a father to me, Hennie, Manfred said quietly.
Does a father leave his son for the hyena and the vultures? 'if I am
your father, little Manie, why then is your face white and mine black?
Hendrick smiled.  There are no debts between us, they were all paid long
ago.  My father and you were brothers.  How many summers have burned
since those days, Hendrick mourned the passage of time with a sorrowful
shake of his head.  And how the world and all those in it have changed.
There is one thing that never changes, not even over the years, Hennie.
What is that, oh child with a white face who claims my paternity?  A
diamond, my black father.  A diamond never changes., Hendrick nodded.
Let us speak then of a diamond.  Not one diamond, Manfred said.  Many
diamonds, a bagful of diamonds that lie in a faraway place that only you
and I know of.  The risks are great, Hendrick told his brother.  And
doubt lurks in my mind like a man-eating lion lying in thick bush.

Perhaps the diamonds are where the white boy says they are, but the lion
of doubt still waits for me.  The father was a devious man, hard and
without mercy, I sense that the son has grown to be like the father.  He
speaks of friendship between us, but I no longer feel the warmth in
him., Moses Gama stared into the fire; his eyes were dark and
inscrutable.  He tried to kill Smuts, he mused aloud.  He is of the hard
Boers like those of old, the ones that slaughtered our people at Blood
river and shattered the power of the great chiefs.  They have been
defeated this time, as they were in 1914, but they have not been
destroyed.  They will rise to fight again, these hard Boers, when this
white men's war across the sea ends, they will call out their impis and
carry the battle to Smuts and his party once again.  It is the way of
the white man, and I have studied his history, that when peace comes,
they often reject those who fought hardest during the battle.  I sense
that in the next conflict the whites will reject Smuts and that the hard
Boers will triumph, and this white boy is one of them., You are right,
my brother, Hendrick nodded.  I had not looked that far into the future.
He is the enemy of our people.  If he and his kind come to power then we
will learn a bitter lesson in slavery.  I must deliver him to the
vengeance of those who seek after him.  Moses Gama raised his noble head
and looked across the fire at his elder brother.

It is the weakness of the multitudes that they cannot see the horizon,
their gaze is fixed only as far ahead as their bellies or their
genitals, Moses said.  You have admitted to that weakness, why, my
brother, do you not seek to rise above it?  Why do you not raise your
eyes and look to the future?  I do not understand!

The greatest danger to our people is their own patience and passivity.
We are a great herd of cattle under the hand of a cunning herdsman.  He
keeps us quiescent with a paternal despotism, and most of us, knowing no
better, are lulled into an acceptance which we mistake for contentment.
Yet the herdsman milks us and at his pleasure eats of our flesh.

He is our enemy, for the slavery in which he holds us is so insidious
that it's impossible to goad the herd to rebel against it. 'If he is our
enemy, what of these others that you call the hard Boers?  Hendrick was
perplexed.  Are they not a fiercer ?

enemy Upon them will depend the ultimate freedom of our people. They are
men without subtlety and artifice.  Not for them the smile and kind word
that disguises the brutal act.

They are angry men filled with fear and hatred.  They hate the Indians
and the Jews, they hate the English, but most of all they hate and fear
the black tribes, for we are many and they are few.  They hate and fear
us because they have what is rightly ours, and they will not be able to
conceal their hatred.  When they come to power, they will teach our
people the true meaning of slavery.  By their oppressions, they will
transform the tribes from a herd of complacent cattle into a great
stampede of enraged wild buffalo before whose strength nothing can
stand.  We must pray for this white boy of yours and all he stands for.
The future of our people depends upon him.  Hendrick sat for a long time
staring into the fire, and then slowly raised his great bald head and
looked at his brother with awe.

I sometimes think, son of my father, that you are the wisest man of all
our tribe, he whispered.

Swart Hendrick sent for a sangoma, a tribal medicine man.

He made a poultice for Manfred's shoulder that when applied, hot and
evil-smelling, proved highly efficacious and within ten days Manfred was
fit to travel again.

The same sangoma provided a herbal dye for Manfred's skin which darkened
it to the exact hue of one of the northern tribes.  The eyes, Manfred's
yellow eyes, were not a serious handicap.  Amongst the black mine
workers who had worked out their Wenela contract and were returning
home, there were certain symbols which confirmed their status as
sophisticated men of the world, tin trunks to hold the treasures they
had acquired, the pink post office savings books filled with the little
numbers of their accumulated wealth, the silver metal mine helmets which
they were allowed to retain and which would be worn with pride
everywhere from the peaks of Basutoland to the equatorial forests, and
lastly a pair of sunglasses.

Manfred's travel papers were issued by one of Hendrick's Buffaloes, a
clerk in the pay office of ERPM, and they were totally authentic.  He
wore his dark sunglasses when he boarded the Wenela train and his skin
was dyed the same hue as the black workers who surrounded him closely.
All these men were Hendrick's Buffaloes, and they kept him protected in
their midst.

He found it strange but reassuring that the few white officials that he
encountered on the long slow journey back to South West Africa, seldom
looked at him directly.  Because he was black, their gaze seemed to
slide by his face without touching it.

Manfred and Hendrick left the train at Okahandja and with a group of
other workers climbed onto the bus for the final hot dusty miles to
Hendrick's kraal.  Two days later they set out again, this time on foot,
heading north and east into the burning wilderness.

There had been good rains during the previous season and they found
water in many of the pans in the southern Kavango and it was two weeks
before they saw the kopjes humped like a caravan of camels out of the
blue heat haze along the desert horizon.

Manfred realized as they tramped towards the hills how alien he was in
this desert.  Hendrick and his father had belonged here, but since
childhood Manfred had lived in towns and cities.  He would never have
been able to find his way back without Hendrick's guidance; indeed he
would not have survived more than a few days in this harsh and
unforgiving land without the big Ovambo.

The kopje that Hendrick led Manfred towards seemed identical to all the
others.  It was only when they scaled the steep granite side and stood
upon the summit, that the memories came crowding back. Perhaps they had
been deliberately suppressed, but now they emerged again in stark
detail.  Manfred could almost see his father's features ravaged by fever
and smell again the stench of gangrene from his rotting flesh.  He
remembered with fresh agony the harsh words of rejection with which his
father had driven him to safety, but he closed his mind to the ache of
them.

Unerringly he went to the crack that split the granite dome and knelt
over it, but his heart sank when he peered down and could distinguish
nothing in the deep shadows that contrasted with the sunlight and its
reflection from the rock around him.

,so they have gone, these famous diamonds, Hendrick chuckled cynically
when he saw Manfred's dismay.  Perhaps the jackals have eaten them.
Manfred ignored him and from his pack brought out a roll of
fishing-line.  He tied the lead sinker and the stout treble fish hook to
the end and lowered it into the crack, Patiently he worked, jigging the
hook along the depth of the crack while Hendrick squatted in the small
strip of shade under the summit boulders and watched him without
offering encouragement.

The hook snagged something deep in the crack, and cautiously Manfred
applied pressure on the line.  It held and he took a twist around his
wrist and pulled upwards with gradually increasing strength.

Something gave, and then the hook pulled free.  He drew the line in hand
over hand.  One point of the treble hook had opened under the strain,
but there was a shred of rotted canvas still attached to the barb.

He bent the tine of the hook back into shape and lowered it once again
into the crack.  He plumbed the depths, working each inch from side to
side and up and down.  Another half hour of work and he felt the hook
snag again.

This time the weight stayed on it, and he eased the line in, an inch at
a time.  He heard something scraping on the rough granite, then slowly a
shapeless lumpy bundle came into view deep down.  He lifted it slowly,
holding his breath as it came up the last few feet.  Then as he swung it
clear, the canvas of the old rucksack burst open and a cascade of
glittering white stones spilled onto the granite top around him.

They divided the diamonds into two equal piles as they had agreed, and
drew lots for the first choice.  Hendrick won and made his selection.
Manfred poured his share into the empty tobacco pouch he had brought for
the purpose.

You told the truth, little Manie, Hendrick admitted.  I was wrong to
doubt you.  The following evening they reached the river and slept side
by side beside the fire.  in the morning they rolled their blankets and
faced each other.

Goodbye, Hennie.  Perhaps the road will bring us together again. 'I have
told you, little Manie, that the gods of the wilderness have linked us
together.  We will meet again, that I am certain of.  I look forward to
that day.  The gods alone will decide whether we meet again as father
and son, as brothers, or as deadly enemies, Hendrick said and slung his
pack over his shoulder.  Without looking back he walked away into the
southern desert.

Manfred watched him out of sight, then he turned and followed the bank
of the river into the north-west.  That evening he came upon a village
of the river people.  Two of the young men in their dugout canoe ferried
him across to the Portuguese side.  Three weeks later Manfred reached
Luanda, capital of the Portuguese colony, and rang the bell on the
wrought-iron gates of the German consulate.

He waited in Luanda three weeks for orders from the German Abwehr in
Berlin, and slowly it dawned upon him that the delay was deliberate.

He had failed in the task they had set him, and in Nazi Germany failure
was unforgivable.

He sold one of the smallest diamonds from his hoard at a fraction of its
real value and waited out his punishment.

Each morning he called at the German consulate and the military attached
turned him away with barely concealed contempt.

No orders yet, Herr De La Rey.  You must be patient.  Manfred spent most
of his days in one of the water-front cafes and his nights in his cheap
lodgings, endlessly going over each detail of his failure, or thinking
about Uncle Tromp and Roelf in the concentration camp, or about Heidi
and the child in Berlin.

His orders came at last.  He was issued a German diplomatic passport and
he sailed on a Portuguese freighter as far as the Canary islands.  From
there he flew on a civilian Junkers aircraft with Spanish markings to
Lisbon.

In Lisbon he encountered the same deliberate contempt.

He was dismissed casually to find his own lodgings and await those
orders which seemed never to come.  He wrote personal letters to Colonel
Sigmund Boldt and to Heidi.

Although the consulate attache assured him that these had gone out in
the diplomatic bag to Berlin, he received no reply.

He sold another small diamond and rented pleasant spacious; lodgings in
an old building on the bank of the Tagus river, passing the long idle
days in reading, study and writing.

He began work on two literary projects simultaneously, a political
history of southern Africa and an autobiography, both for his own
edification and with no intention of ever publishing.  He learned
Portuguese, taking lessons from a retired schoohnaster who lived in the
same building.  He kept up a rigorous physical training schedule, as
though he were still boxing professionally, and he came to know all the
secondhand book stores of the city where he purchased every law book he
could find and read them in German, English and Portuguese.  But still
the time hung heavily on his hands and he chafed at his inability to
take part in the conflict that raged around the globe.

The conflict swung against the Axis powers.  The United States of
America had entered the war and Flying Fortresses were bombing the
cities of Germany.  Manfred read of the terrible conflagration that had
destroyed Cologne and he wrote again to Heidi for perhaps the hundredth
time since he had arrived in Portugal.

Three weeks later, on one of his regular calls at the German consulate,
the military attache handed him an envelope and with a surge of joy he
recognized Heidi's handwriting upon it.  It told him that she had
received none of his previous letters and had come to believe that he
was dead.  She expressed her wonder and thankfulness at his survival and
sent him a snapshot of herself and little Lothar.  In the photograph he
saw that she had put on a little weight, but in a stately manner she was
even more handsome than when last he had seen her, and in a little over
three years his son had grown into a sturdy youngster with a head of
blond curls and features that showed promise of strength as well as
beauty.  The photograph was black and white and did not show the colour
of his eyes.  Manfred's longing for them both threatened to consume him.
He wrote Heidi a long passionate letter explaining his circumstances and
urging her to make all possible efforts to procure a travel pass and to
join him with the child in Lisbon.  Without being specific, he was able
to let her know that he was financially able to

take care of them, and that he had plans for a future that included them
both.

Heidi De La Rey lay awake and listened to the bombers.

They had come on three successive nights.  The centre of the city was
devastated, the opera house and the railway station totally destroyed,
and from the information which she had access to in the Department of
Propaganda, she knew of the Allied successes in France and Russia, she
knew the truth of the hundred thousand German troops captured by the
Russians at Minsk.

Beside her Colonel Sigmund Boldt slept restlessly, rolling over and
grunting so she was even more disturbed by him than by the distant
American bombers.  He had reason to worry, she thought.  All of them
were worried since the abortive attempt to assassinate the Fuhrer.  She
had seen the films of the execution of the traitors, every minute detail
of their agony as they hung on the meat hooks, and General Zoller had
been one of them.

Sigmund Boldt had not been one of the conspirators, she was certain of
that, but he was close enough to the plot to be caught up in the tidal
wave that flowed from it.  Heidi had been his mistress for almost a year
now, but she had begun to notice the first signs of his waning interest
in her, and she knew that his days of influence and power were numbered.
Soon she would be alone again, without special food rations for herself
and little Lothar.

She listened to the bombers.  The raid was over, and the sound of their
motors dwindled away to a mosquito hum, but they would be back. In the
silence after their departure, she thought about Manfred and the letters
he had written to which she had never replied.  He was in Lisbon, and in
Portugal there were no bombers.

She spoke to Sigmund the next day at breakfast.  It is only little
Lothar I am thinking of, she explained, and she thought she saw a
glimmer of relief in his expression.  Perhaps he had already been
calculating how he could be rid of her without a fuss.  That afternoon
she wrote to Manfred, care of the German consulate in Lisbon, and she
enclosed a photograph of herself and Lothar.

Colonel Sigmund Boldt moved quickly.  He still had influence and power
in the department sufficient for him to procure her travel pass and
documents within a week, and he drove her out to Tempelhof airport in
the black Mercedes and kissed her goodbye at the foot of the boarding
ladder of the Junkers transport aircraft.

Three days later Sigmund Boldt was arrested in his home at Granewald and
a week later he died under interrogation in his cell at the Gestapo
headquarters, still protesting his innocence.

Little Lothar De La Rey caught his first glimpse of Africa peering
between the rails of the Portuguese freighter as it steamed into Table
Bay.  He stood between his father and mother, holding their hands and
chuckling with delight at the steam tugs that came bustling out to
welcome their ship.

The war had ended two years ago, but Manfred had taken extraordinary
precautions before bringing his family to Africa.  First he had written
to Uncle Tromp who had been released from internment at the end of the
war, and from him learned all the family and political news.  Aunt Trudi
was well and both the girls were married now.  Roelf had been released
at the same time as Uncle Tromp and had returned to his job at the
university.  He and Sarah were happy and well and expecting another
addition to their family before the year's end.

Politically the news was promising.  Although the Ossewa Brandwag and
the other paramilitary organizations had been discredited and disbanded,
their members had been absorbed into the National Party under Dr Daniel
Malan, and the Party was rejuvenated and strengthened by their numbers.
Afrikaner unity had never been more solid, and the dedication of the
massive Voortrekker monument on a kopje above Pretoria had rallied the
Volk so that even many of those who had joined Smuts army and fought in
North Africa and Italy were flocking to the cause.

A backlash was developing against Smuts and his United Party.  The
feeling was that he placed the interests of the British Commonwealth,
which he had done so much to bring into being, before the interests of
South Africa.

Furthermore, Smuts had made a political misjudgement by inviting the
British Royal Family to visit the country, and their presence had served
to polarize public feelings between the English-speaking jingoists and
the Afrikaners.

Even many of those who had been Smuts men were offended by the visit.

Doctor Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd who had left his teaching post at
Stellenbosch University to become editor of Die Vaderland allowed only
one reference to the royal visit in his newspaper.  He warned his
readers that there might be some disruption of traffic in Johannesburg
owing to the presence of foreign visitors in the city.

On the occasion of the loyal address at the opening of the South African
Parliament, Dr Daniel Malan and all his Nationalist members had absented
themselves from the House in protest.

Uncle Tromp ended his letter, So we have come through the storm
strengthened and purified as a Volk, and more determined than ever in
our endeavours.  There are great days ahead, Manie.  Come home.  We need
men like you.  Still Manfred did not move immediately.  First he wrote
to Uncle Tromp again.  In veiled terms he asked what the position was
with regard to a white sword he had left behind, and after a delay he
received assurance that nobody knew anything about his sword. Discreet
enquiries through friends in the police force had elicited the
information that although the dossier on the missing sword was still
open, it was no longer under active investigation and nobody knew its
whereabouts or to whom it belonged.  It must be assumed that it would
never be found.

Leaving Heidi and the boy in Lisbon, Manfred travelled by train to
Zihich where he sold the remainder of the diamonds.  In the post-war
euphoria prices were high, and he was able to deposit almost 1,200,000
in a numbered account with Credit Suisse.

When they reached Cape Town the family went ashore without attracting
attention, although as an Olympic gold medallist Manfred could have
found himself the centre of a great deal of publicity if he had wished.
Quietly he felt his way, visiting old friends, former OB members and
political allies, making certain that there were no nasty surprises in
store for him before he gave his first interview to the Burger
newspaper.  To them he explained how he had passed the war in neutral
Portugal because he had declined to fight for either side, but now he
had returned to the land of his birth to make whatever contribution he
could to political progress towards what was every Afrikaner's dream, a
Republic of South Africa, free from the dictates of any foreign power.

He had said all the right things, and he was an Olympic gold medallist
in a land where athletic prowess was venerated.  He was handsome and
clever and devout, with an attractive wife and son.  He still had
friends in high places and the number of those friends was increasing
each day.

He purchased a partnership in a prosperous Stellenbosch law firm. The
senior partner was an attorney named Van Schoor, very active in politics
and a luminary of the Nationalist Party.  He sponsored Manfred's entry
into the Party.

Manfred devoted himself to the affairs of Van Schoor and De La Rey and
just as single-mindedly to those of the Cape Nationalist Party.  He
showed great skills as an organizer and as a fund-raiser, and by the end
of 1947 he was a member of the Broederbond.

The Broederbond, or brotherhood, was another secret society of
Afrikaners.  It had not replaced the defunct ossewa Brandwag, but had
existed concurrently, and often in competition with it.  Unlike the OB
it was not flamboyant and overtly militant, there were no uniforms or
torchlit rallies.

It worked quietly in small groups in the homes and offices of powerful
and influential men for membership was only bestowed upon the brightest
and the best.  It considered its members to be an elite of
super-Afrikaners, whose end object was the formation of an Afrikaner
Republic.  Like the disbanded OB, the secrecy surrounding it was
iron-clad.  Unlike the OB, a member must be much more than merely a
pureblooded Afrikaner.  He must be a leader of men, or at the very least
a potential leader, and an invitation to join the brotherhood held
within it the promise of high political preference and favour in the
future Republic.

Manfred's first rewards of membership came almost immediately, for when
the campaign for the general election of 1948 opened, Manfred De La Rey
was nominated as the official Nationalist candidate for the marginal
seat of Hottentots Holland.

Two years previously, in a by-election, the seat had been won for Smuts
United Party by a young war-hero from a rich English-speaking Cape
family.  As the incumbent, Shasa Courtney had been nominated by the
United Party as their candidate to contest the general election.

Manfred De La Rey had been offered a safer seat but he had deliberately
chosen Hottentots Holland.  He wanted the opportunity to meet Shasa
Courtney again.  He recalled vividly their first meeting on the fish
jetty at Walvis Bay.  Since then their destinies seemed to have been
inextricably bound together in a knot of Gordian complexity, and Manfred
sensed that he had to face this adversary one more time and unravel that
knot.

To prepare himself for the campaign as well as to satisfy his brooding
enmity towards them, Manfred began an investigation of the Courtney
family, in particular Shasa and his mother Mrs Centaine de Thiry
Courtney.  Almost immediately he found areas of mystery in the woman's
past, and these grew deeper as his investigations continued. Finally he
.  was sufficiently encouraged to employ a Parisian firm of private
investigators to examine in detail Centaine's family background and her
origins.

On his regular monthly visit to his father in Pretoria Central Prison,
he brought up the Courtney name and begged the frail old man to tell him
everything he knew about them.

When the campaign opened, Manfred knew that his m'vestigations had given
him an important advantage, and he threw himself into the rough and
tumble of a South African election with gusto and determination.

Centaine de Thiry Courtney stood on the top of Table Mountain, a little
apart from the rest of the party.  Since Sir Garry's murder the mountain
always saddened her, even when she looked at it from the windows of her
study at Weltevreden.

This was the first time that she had been on the summit since that
tragic day, and she was here only because she could not refuse Blaine's
invitation to act as his official partner.  And, of course, I am still
enough of a snob to relish the idea of being introduced to the king and
the queen of England!  She was truthful with herself.

The Ou Baas was chatting to King George, pointing out the landmarks with
his cane.  He was wearing his old Panama hat and baggy slacks, and
Centaine felt a pang at his resemblance to Sir Garry.  She turned away.

Blaine was with the small group around the royal princesses.  He was
telling a story and Margaret Rose laughed delightedly.  How pretty she
is, Centaine thought.  What a complexion, a royal English rose. The
princess turned and said something to one of the other young men.
Centaine had been introduced to him earlier; he was an airforce officer
as Shasa was, a handsome fellow with a fine sensitive face, she thought,
and then her female instincts were alerted as she caught the secret
glance the couple exchanged.  It was unmistakable, and Centaine felt
that little lift of her spirits she always enjoyed when she saw two
young people in love.

It was followed almost immediately by a return of her sombre mood.

Thinking of love and young lovers, she studied Blaine.  He was unaware
of her gaze, relaxed and charming, but there was silver in his hair,
shining silver wings above those sticky-out ears she loved so well, and
there were deep creases in his tanned face, around the eyes and at the
corners of his mouth and his big aquiline nose.  Still his body was hard
and flat-bellied from riding and walking, but he was like the old lion,
and with a further slide of her spirits she faced the fact that he was
no longer in his prime.  Instead he stood at the threshold of old age.

Oh, God, she thought, even I will be forty-eight years old in a few
months, and she lifted her hand to touch her head.  There was silver
there also, but so artfully tinted that it seemed merely a bleaching of
the African sun.  There were other unpalatable truths that her mirror
revealed to her in the privacy of her boudoir, before she hid them with
the creams and powders and rouges.

How much more time is there, my darling?  she asked sadly but silently.
Yesterday we were young and immortal, but today I see at last that there
is a term to all things.  At that moment Blaine looked across at her,
and she saw his quick concern as he noticed her expression.  He murmured
an apology to the others and came to her side.

Why so serious on such a lovely day?  he smiled.

I was thinking how shameless you are, Blaine Malcomess, she answered,
and his smile slipped.

What is it, Centaine?  How can you blatantly parade your mistress before
the crowned heads of Empire, she demanded.  I have no doubt it is a
capital crime, you could have your head struck off on Tower Green!  He
stared at her for a moment, and then the grin came back, boyish and
jubilant.  My dear lady, there must be some way I can escape that fate.
What if I were to change your status, from scarlet mistress to demure
wife?  She giggled.  She very seldom did that, but when she did, he
found it irresistible.  What an extraordinary time and place to receive
a proposal of marriage, and an even more extraordinary time and place to
accept one.  What do you think their majesties would say if I were to
kiss you here and now?  He leaned towards her and she leapt back
startled.

Crazy man, you just wait until I get you home, she threatened. He took
her arm and they went to join the company.

Weltevreden is one of the loveliest homes in the Cape, Blaine agreed.
But it doesn't belong to me, and I want to carry my bride over the
threshold of my own home.  We cannot live in Newlands House. Centaine
did not have to say more, and for a moment Isabella's ghost passed
between them like a dark shadow.

What about the cottage?  He laughed to banish Isabella's memory. 'It's
got a magnificent bed, what else do we need?  We'll keep that, she
agreed.  And every now and then we will slip away to revisit it. 'Dirty
weekends, good-oh!  You are vulgar, do you know that?  So where shall we
live?  We will find a place.  Our own special place. It was five hundred
acres of mountain, beach and rocky coastline with a profusion of protea
plants and grand views across Hout Bay and out to the cold green
Atlantic.

The house was a huge rambling Victorian mansion, built at the turn of
the century by one of the old mining magnates from the Witwatersrand,
and in desperate need of the attention that Centaine proceeded to lavish
upon it.  However, she kept the name Rhodes Hill. For her one of its
chief attractions was that a mere twenty minutes in the Daimler took her
over the Constantia Nek pass and down to the vineyards of Weltevreden.

Shasa had taken over the chairmanship of Courtney Mining and Finance at
the war's end, although Centaine kept a seat on the board and never
missed a meeting.  Now Shasa and Tara moved into the great chateau of
Weltevreden that she had vacated, but Centaine visited there every
weekend and sometimes more often.  It gave her a pang when Tara
rearranged the furniture that she had left and relandscaped the front
lawns and gardens, but with an effort she managed to hold her tongue.

often these days she thought of the old Bushman couple who had rescued
her from the sea and the desert, and then she would sing softly the
praise song that O'wa had composed for the infant Shasa: His arrows will
fly to the stars and when men speak his name it will be heard as far And
he will find good water, wherever he travels, he will find good water.

Although after all these years the clicks and tones of the San language
tripped strangely on her tongue, she knew that the blessing of O'wa had
borne fruit.  That, and her own rigorous training had led Shasa to the
good waters of life.

Gradually Shasa with the help of David Abrahams in Windhoek had
instilled into the sprawling Courtney Mining and Finance Company a new
spirit of youthful vigour and adventure.  Although the old hands, Abe
Abrahams and Twenty-man-Jones, grumbled and shook their heads and
although Centaine was occasionally forced to side with them and veto
Shasa's wilder more risky projects, the company regained direction and
increased in stature.  Each time that Centaine examined the books or
took her seat below her son at the boardroom table, there was less to
complain about and more cause for self-congratulation.  Even Dr
Twenty-man-Jones, that paragon of pessimists, had been heard to mutter,
'The boy has got a head on his shoulders.  And then appalled at his own
lapse, he had added morosely, Mind you, it will take a full day's work
from all of us to keep it there.  When Shasa had been nominated as the
United Party candidate for the parliamentary by-election of Hottentots
Holland and had snatched a close-fought victory from his Nationalist
opponent, Centaine saw all her ambitions for hi-in becoming reality. He
would almost certainly be offered something more important after the
next general election, perhaps the job as deputy minister of mines and
industry.

After that, a full seat in the cabinet, and beyond that?  She let the
idea of it send little thrills up her spine, but did not allow herself
to dwell on it in case the thought brought illfortune on the actuality.
Still it was possible.  Her son was well favoured, even the eye-patch
added to his individuality, he spoke amusingly and articulately, and he
had the trick of making people listen and like him.  He was rich and
ambitious and clever, and he had herself and Tara behind him.  It was
possible and more than possible.

By some remarkable dialectic contortion Tara Malcomess Courtney had
retained her social conscience intact while taking up the management of
the Weltevreden household as though to the manner born.

it was typical that she retained her maiden name, and that she could
rush from the elegant surroundings of Weltevreden to the slum clinics
and feeding centres for the poor out on the Cape flats without missing a
step, taking with her larger charitable donations than Shasa really
liked to part with.

She threw herself into the duties of motherhood with equal abandon.  Her
first three efforts were all male, healthy and rumbustious.  In order of
seniority they were Sean, Garrick and Michael.  With her fourth visit to
the childbed she produced, with little effort and time wasted in labour,
her masterpiece.  This one Tara named after her own mother, Isabella and
from the moment he first picked her up and she puked a little sour
clotted milk on his shoulder, Shasa was totally besotted with her.

Up to this time it was Tara's spirit and intriguing individuality that
had kept Shasa from growing bored and responding to the subtle and less
than subtle invitations that were showered on him by circling female
predators.

Centaine, fully aware that Shasa's veins were charged with hot de Thiry
blood, agonized that Tara seemed oblivious of the danger and dismissed
her veiled warnings with an offhand, Oh, Mater, Shasa isn't like that.
Centaine knew that was exactly the way he was.  Mon Dieu, he started at
fourteen.  But she relaxed after the other woman finally entered his
life in the shape of Isabella de Thiry Malcomess Courtney. It would have
been so easy for a fatal slip to spoil it all, to dash the sweet cup
from her lips just as she was able to savour it to the full, but now at
last Centaine was secure.

She sat under the oaks beside the polo practice grounds of Weltevreden,
a guest on the estate she had built up and cherished, but an honoured
guest and well content.  The coloured nannies had charge of the babies,
Michael just a year and a bit and Isabella still at the breast.

Sean was out in the middle of the field.  He sat on the pommel of
Shasa's saddle, shrieking with excitement and delight, as his father ran
the pony at a full gallop down between the far goal posts, brought him
up short in a swirl of dust, pivoted and came back in a crescendo of
hoof beats.

Meanwhile Sean, secure in the circle of Shasa's left arm, urged him
Faster!  Faster, Papa!  Go faster!  On Centaine's knee Garrick bounced
impatiently, Me!  he yelled.  Now me!  Shasa.  brought the pony in still
at full gallop, then reined him down to a dead stop.  He lifted Sean off
the pommel against his best effort to stick like a bush tick.  Garrick
slipped off Centaine's lap and toddled to his father.

The, Daddy, my turn!  Shasa leaned out of the saddle, swung the child up
in front of him and they were off again at a gallop.  It was a game of
which they never tired; they had already exhausted two ponies since
lunchtime.

There was the sound of a motor vehicle coming down from the chateau, and
Centaine sprang to her feet involuntarily as she recognized the
distinctive beat of the Bentley's engine.

Then she composed herself and went to meet Blaine with a little more
dignity than her eagerness dictated, but as he stepped out of the
vehicle she saw his expression and she quickened her step.

What is it, Blaine?  she demanded as he kissed her cheek.

Is something wrong?  No, of course not, he assured her.  The
Nationalists have announced their candidates for the Cape
constituencies, that's all., Who have they put up against you?  She was
all attention now.  Old Van Schoor again?  No, my dear, new blood.
Someone you have probably never heard of, Dawid Van Niekerk. 'Who have
they nominated for Hottentots Holland?  When he hesitated, she was
immediately insistent.  Who is it, Blaine?  He took her arm and began to
walk her slowly back to join the family at the tea-table under the oaks.

Life is a strange thing, he said.

Blaine Malcomess, I asked you for an answer, not a few gems of homespun
philosophy.  Who is it?  I'm sorry my dear, he murmured regretfully.
They have nominated Manfred De La Rey as their official party candidate.
Centaine stopped dead, and she felt the blood drain from her face.
Blaine tightened his grip on her arm to steady her as she swayed on her
feet.  Since the beginning of the war Centaine had heard or seen nothing
of her second, unacknowledged, son.

Shasa began his campaign with an open meeting in the Boy Scouts hall of
Somerset West.

He and Tara drove out the thirty miles from Cape Town to this beautiful
little village which nestled at the foot of Sir Lowry's Pass beneath the
rugged barrier of the Hottentots Holland mountains.  Tara insisted that
they take her old Packard.  She never felt comfortable in Shasa's new
Rolls.

How can you bear to drive around on four wheels that cost enough to
clothe, educate and feed a hundred black children from the cradle to the
grave?  For once Shasa saw the practical wisdom of not flaunting his
wealth in front of his constituents.  Tara was really tremendous value
for money, Shasa reflected.  An aspiring politician could not ask for a
better running mate, a mother of four lovely children, outspoken,
holding strong opinions and possessing a natural shrewdness that
anticipated the prejudices and fickle enthusiasm of the herd.  She was
also strikingly beautiful with all that smouldering auburn hair and a
smile that could light up a dreary meeting, and despite four childbirths
in almost as many years, her figure was still marvelous, small waist,
good hips, only her bosom had burgeoned.

I'd back her in a showdown with Jane Russell, tit for tat she'd win by a
length going away.  Shasa chuckled aloud, and she looked across at him.

That's your dirty laugh, she accused.  Don't tell me what you are
thinking.  Let me hear your speech instead.  He rehearsed it for her,
with appropriate gestures and she made an occasional suggestion on
content and delivery.  I would pause longer there, I and, look fierce
and determined, or, I wouldn't make too much of that bit about the
Empire.

Not really in fashion any more.  Tara still drove furiously and the
journey was soon over.

There were larger-than-life posters of Shasa pasted at the entrance and
the hall was gratifyingly full.  All the seats ken and there were even a
dozen or so younger men were ta standing at the back - they looked like
students, Shasa doubted they were old enough to vote.

The local United Party organizer, a Party rosette on his lapel,
introduced Shasa as a man who needed no introduction and extolled the
fine work he had done for the constituency during his previous short
term of office.

Then Shasa rose, tall and debonair in a dark blue suit that was not too
new or fashionably cut, but with a crisp white shirt, only spivs wore
coloured shirts, and an airforce tie to remind them of his war record.
The eye-patch further emphasized what he had sacrificed for his country
and his smile was charming and sincere.

My friends he began, and got no further.  He was drowned out by a
pandemonium of stamping and chanting and jeering.  Shasa tried to make a
joke of it, pretending to conduct the orchestrated abuse, but his smile
became steadily less sincere as the uproar showed no signs of abating,
instead becoming louder and more vindictive as the minutes passed.
Finally he began to deliver his address, bellowing it out to be heard
above the din.

There were about three hundred of them, taking up the entire back half
of the hall, and they made clear their allegiance to the Nationalist
Party and its candidate, waving Party banners that depicted the powder
horn insignia and holding up posters of Manfred De La Rey's gravely
handsome portrait.

After the first fcw minutes a number of the elderly and middle-aged
voters in the front of the hall, sensing the violence that was coming,
helped their wives from their seats and scuttled out of the side
entrance to a renewed outburst of jeers.

Suddenly Tara Courtney leapt to her feet beside Shasa.

Flushed with anger, her grey eyes hard and glittering as bayonets, she
yelled at them, What kind of men are you?

Is this fair?  You call yourselves Christians?  Where is your Christian
charity?  Give the man a chance!  Her voice carried, and her furious
beauty checked them.

Their inherent sense of chivalry began to take effect, one or two of
them sat down and grinned sheepishly, the noise began to abate, but a
big dark-haired man leapt up from the audience and rallied them.

Kom kerels, come on, boys, let's see the Soutie back to England where he
belongs., Shasa knew the man, he was one of the local Party organizers.
He had been on the Olympic team back in 1936 and had spent most of the
war in an internment camp.  He was a senior lecturer in Law at
Stellenbosch University and Shasa challenged him in Afrikaans: Does
Meneer Roelf Stander believe in the rule of law and the right of free
speech?  Before he could finish, the first missile was thrown.  it came
sailing in a high parabola from the back of the hall and burst on the
table in front of Tara, a brown paper bag filled with dog turds, and
immediately there was a bombardment of soft fruit and toilet rolls, dead
chickens and rotten fish.

From the front of the hall the United Party supporters stood up and
shouted for order, but Roelf Stander waved his men forward and joyously
they surged up to give battle.

Seats were overturned, and women screamed, men were shouting and
swearing and wrestling and falling over one another.

Keep close behind me, Shasa told Tara.  Hold onto my coat!  He fought
his way towards the door, punching any man who stood in his way.

One of them went down before Shasa's right hook, and protested
plaintively from the floor, Hey, man, I'm on your side, but Shasa
dragged Tara out of the side door and they ran to the Packard.

Neither of them spoke until Tara had them back on the main road,
headlights pointing towards the dark bulk of Table Mountain.  Then she
asked, How many of them did you get?  Three of theirs, one of ours, and
they burst into nervously relieved laughter.

It looks as though this is going to be a lot of fun.  The election of
1948 was fought with increasing acrimony as across the land a
realization began to dawn that the nation had reached some fateful
crossroads.

The Smuts men were flabbergasted by the depth of feeling the
Nationalists had managed to engender amongst the Afrikaner people, and
they were totally unprepared for the almost military mobilization of all
the forces at the command of the Nationalist Party.

There were few black voters and of all white South Africans the
Afrikaners formed a small majority.  Smuts had relied for his support
upon the English-speaking electorate together with the moderate
Afrikaner faction.  As polling day drew closer, this moderate support
was slowly seduced by the wave of Nationalistic hysteria, and the gloom
in the United Party deepened.

Three days before polling day, Centaine was in her new garden,
supervising the marking out and planting of a hundred additional yellow
rose bushes when her secretary came hurrying down from the house.

Mr Duggan is here, ma'am.  Andrew Duggan was the editor of the Cape
Argus, the English-language newspaper with the largest readership in the
Cape.  He was a good friend of Centaine's, a regular house guest, but
still it was most inconsiderate of him to call unannounced. Centaine's
hair was a bushy fright, despite her headscarf, and she was flushed and
sweaty and without make-up.

Tell him I'm not at home, she ordered.

Mr Duggan sends his apologies, but it's a matter of extreme urgency.  He
used the term "life and death", ma'am.  Oh, very well. Go tell him I
will be with him in five minutes.  She changed from slacks and sweater
into a morning dress and made a few perfunctory dabs with a powder puff,
then she swept into the front room where Andrew Duggan stood by the
french doors looking out over the Atlantic.  Her welcome to him was less
than effusive, and she did not offer her cheek for him to kiss, a small
token of her displeasure.

Andrew was apologetic.

I know how you feel, Centaine, this is damned cheeky of me barging in
here, but I simply had to speak to you and I couldn't use the telephone.
Tell me I am forgiven, please., She softened and smiled.  You are
forgiven and I'll give you a cup of tea to prove it. She poured the
orange pekoe tea, brought the paper-thin Royal Doulton cup to him and
sat beside him on the sofa.

Life and death?  she asked.

More correctly, life and birth.  You intrigue me.  Please go on, Andy.
Centaine, I have received the most extraordinary allegations, supported
by documents which appear on the surface to be genuine.  If they are,
then I shall be obliged to print the story.  The allegation concerns you
and your family, but especially you and Shasa. They are most damaging
allegations, he trailed off and looked at her for permission to
continue.

Go on, please, Centaine said with a calm she did not feel.

Not to put too fine a point on it, Centaine, we have been told that your
marriage to Blaine was your first and only marriage, Centaine felt the
leaden weight of dismay crush down upon her which, of course, means that
Shasa is illegitimate.  She held up her hand to stop him.  Answer me one
question.  Your informant is the Nationalist Party candidate in the
Hottentots Holland constituency or one of his agents. is my guess
correct!  He bowed his head slightly in assent but said, We do not
reveal our sources.  It's not the policy of our newspaper.  They were
silent for a long while and Andrew Duggan studied her face.  What an
extraordinary woman she was, indomitable even in the face of
catastrophe.  It saddened him to think that he must be the one who would
destroy her dream.  He had guessed at her ambitions and empathized with
them.  Shasa Courtney had much of value to give the nation.

You have the documents, of course?  Centaine asked, and he shook his
head.

,MY informant is holding them against my firm undertaking to print the
story before polling day.  Which you will give him?  If I cannot have
something from you to refute the allegations, then I must print. It is
material and in the public interest.  Give me until tomorrow morning,
she asked, and he hesitated.  As a personal favour, please Andy.  Very
well, he agreed.  I owe you that at least.  He stood up. 'I'm sorry,
Centaine, I have taken too much of your time already. Immediately Andrew
Duggan had left, Centaine went upstairs and bathed and changed.  Within
half an hour she was in the Daimler and heading for the town of
Stellenbosch.

It was long after five when she parked in front of the law offices of
Van Schoor and De La Rey, but the front door opened to her touch and she
found one of the partners working late.

Meneer De La Rey left a little early today.  He took a brief home to
work undisturbed.  My business is most urgent.  Can you give me his home
address?  It was a pleasant modest gabled house on an acre of ground on
the banks of the river, adjoining the spreading Lanzerac estate.
Somebody had taken a great deal of care with the garden and it was
filled with flowers even this late in the year, with the first snows of
winter on the mountains.

A woman opened the door to Centaine, a big blond woman with a heavily
handsome head and a high full bosom.  Her Smile was reserved and she
opened the door only halfway.

I would like to speak to Meneer De La Rey, Centaine told her in
Afrikaans.  Will you tell him Mrs Malcomess is here.  My husband is
working.  I do not like to disturb him but come in, I will see if he
will speak to you.  She left Centaine in the front room with its flocked
wallpaper of dark red, velvet curtains and heavy Teutonic furniture.
Centaine was too keyed up to sit down, She stood in the centre of the
floor and looked at the paintings on the fireplace wall without really
seeing them, until she became aware of being observed herself.

She turned quickly and a child stood in the doorway, studying her with
unblinking frankness.  He was a lovely boy, probably seven or eight
years old, with a head of blond curls but with incongruously dark eyes
under dark brows.

The eyes were her own, she recognized them immediately.

This was her grandchild, she knew it instinctively, and the shock of it
made her tremble.  They stared at each other.

Then she gathered herself and approached him slowly.  She held out her
hand and smiled.

Hello, she said.  What is your name?  I am Lothar De La Rey, he answered
importantly.  And I am nearly eight years old.  Lothar! she thought, and
the name brought all the memories and heartaches back to swamp her
emotions.  Still she managed to hold the smile.

What a big fine boy, she began, and she had almost touched his cheek
when the woman appeared in the door behind him.

What are you doing here, Lothie?  she scolded.  You have not finished
your dinner.  Back to the table this instant, do you hear? The child
bolted from the room and the woman smiled at Centaine.

I'm sorry.  He is at the inquisitive age, she apologized.

My husband will see you, Mevrou.  Please come with me.  Still shaken
from her brief encounter with her grandchild Centaine was unprepared for
the additional shock of meeting her son face to face. He stood behind a
desk that was strewn with documents and he glared at her with that
disconcerting yellow gaze.

I cannot tell you that you are welcome in this house, Mrs Malcomess.  He
spoke in English.  You are a blood enemy of my family, and of mine. That
is not true.  Centaine found her voice was breathless, and she tried
desperately to regain control.

Manfred made a dismissive gesture.  You robbed and cheated my father,
you crippled him, and through you he has spent half his life in prison.
If you could see him now, an old man broken and discarded, you would not
come here seeking favours from me.  Are you certain I came for a favour?
she asked, and he laughed bitterly.

For what other reason?  You have hounded me, from the day I first saw
you in the courtroom at my father's trial.  I have seen you watching me,
following me, stalking me, like a hungry lioness.  I know you seek to
destroy me as you destroyed my father.  No!  She shook her head
vehemently, but he went on remorselessly.

Now you dare to come and beg my favour.  I know what you want. He pulled
open the drawer of his desk and lifted out a file.  He opened it and let
the papers it contained spill upon the desktop.  Amongst them she
recognized French birth certificates and old newspaper clippings.

Shall I read all these to you or will you read them yourself? What other
proof do I need to show the world that you are a whore and your son a
bastard?  he asked, and she flinched at the words.

You have been very thorough, she said softly.

Yes, he agreed.  Very thorough.  I have all the evidence No, she
contradicted him.  Not all the evidence.  You know about one bastard son
of mine, but there is another bastard.  I will tell you about my second
bastard.  For the first time he was uncertain, staring at her, at a loss
for words.  Then he shook his head.

You are shameless, he marvelled.  You flaunt your sins before the world.
Not before the world, she said.  Only before the person they concern
most.  Only before you, Manfred De La Rey.  I do not understand.  Then I
shall explain why I followed you, as you put it hounded and stalked you
like a lioness.  It was not the way a lioness stalks her prey, it was
the way a lioness follows her cub.  You see, Manfred, you are my other
son.  I gave birth to you in the desert and Lothar took you away before
I had seen your face.  You are my son and Shasa is your halfbrother.  If
he is a bastard, so are you.  If you destroy him with that fact, you
destroy yourself., I do not believe you!  He recoiled from her.  Lies!
All lies!

My mother was a German woman of noble birth.  I have her photograph.
There!  Look there on the wall!  Centaine glanced at it. 'That was
Lothar's wife,, she agreed.  She died almost two years before you were
born.  No.  It's not true.  It cannot be true.  Ask your father,
Manfred, she said softly.  Go to Windhoek.  The date of that woman's
death will be registered there.  He saw it was true, and he slumped down
into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

if you are my mother, how can I hate you so bitterly?  She went and
stood over him.  Not as bitterly as I have hated myself for renouncing
and abandoning you.  She bent and kissed his head.  If only - she
whispered.

But now it is too late, far too late.  As you have said, we are enemies
separated by a void as wide as the ocean.  Neither of us can ever cross
it, but I do not hate you, Manfred, my son.  I have never hated you. She
left him slumped at his desk and walked slowly from the room.

At noon the following day Andrew Duggan telephoned her.

My informant has retracted his allegations, Centaine.  He tells me that
the papers, all the papers connected to the case, have been burned.  I
think somebody got at him, Centaine, but I cannot for the life of me
think who.  On 25 May 1948, the day before polling for the general
election, Manfred addressed a huge crowd in the Dutch Reformed Church
hall in Stellenbosch.  All of them were staunch Nationalist supporters.
No opposition was allowed to enter the hall, Roelf Stander and his
action squad saw to that.

Yet when Manfred rose to speak, he also was prevented from doing so. The
standing ovation that the crowd gave him kept him silent for fully five
minutes.  However, when it was over, they sat and listened in attentive
silence as he gave them a vision of the future.

Under Smuts this land of ours will become peopled by a coffee-coloured
race of half-bred mongrels, the only white ones left will be the Jews,
those same Jews who at this very moment in Palestine are murdering
innocent British soldiers at every turn.  As you well know, Smuts has
hastened to recognize the new state of Israel.  That is only to be
expected.  His paymasters are the Jewish owners of the gold mines, Now
the crowd cried: Skande, Scandal!  and he paused impressively before he
went on.

What we offer you instead is a plan, nay more than a plan, a vision, a
bold and noble vision which will ensure the survival of the pure
untainted bloodlines of our VoLk.  A vision that will at the same time
protect all the other people of this land, the Cape coloureds, the
Indians, the black tribes.

This grand concept has been drawn up by clever men working with
dedication and without self-interest, men like Dr Theophilus Donges and
Dr Nicolaas Diederichs and Dr Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd, brilliant men
every one of them.  The crowd roared their agreement, and he sipped a
glass of water and shuffled his notes until they quieted.

It is an idealistic, carefully worked out and completely infallible
concept that will allow all the different races to live in peace and
dignity and prosperity and yet allow each of them to retain its separate
identity and culture.  For this reason we have named the policy
Separateness.  That is our vision that will carry our land to greatness,
a vision at which the world will wonder, an example to all men of good
will everywhere.  That is what we call Apartheid.  That, my beloved
people, is the glorious mantle which we have prepared to place upon our
country.  Apartheid, my dear friends, that is what we offer you, the
shining vision of Apartheid.  He could not speak for many minutes, but
when there was silence, he went on in a brisker more businesslike tone.

Of course, it will first be necessary to disenfranchise those black and
coloured people who are already registered on the voters roll When he
ended an hour later they carried him on their shoulders from the hall.

Tara stood close beside Shasa as they waited for the electoral officers
to finish counting the votes and announce the result in the Hottentots
Holland constituency.

The hall was filled with an excited crowd.  There was laughter and
singing and horseplay.  The Nationalist candidate was at the far side of
the hall with his tall blond wife beside him, surrounded by a restless
overwrought knot of his supporters all sporting Nationalist rosettes.

One of the United Party organizers beckoned frantically at Shasa over
the heads of the crowd, but he was chatting gaily to a bevy of fernale
enthusiasts, and Tara slipped away to answer the summons.  She came back
only seconds later and when Shasa saw her face he broke off his
conversation and went to meet her, forcing his way through the throng.

What is it, darlings You look as though you have seen a ghost. 'It's the
Ou Baas, she whispered.  A telephone call from the Transvaal.  Smuts has
lost Standerton.  The Nationalists have won it. 'Oh God, no.  Shasa was
appalled.  The Ou Baas has held that seat for twenty-five years.  They
cannot discard him now.  The British discarded Winston Churchill, Tara
said.

They don't want heroes any more.  It's a sign, Shasa muttered. 'If Smuts
goes, we all go with him.  Ten minutes later the news was telephoned
through.

Colonel Blaine Malcomess had lost the Gardens by almost a thousand
votes.

A thousand votes, Shasa tried to accept it, but that's a swing of almost
ten percent.  What happens now?  The electoral officer climbed onto the
stage at the end of the hall.  He had the results in his hand, and the
crowd fell silent but edged forward eagerly.

Ladies and gentlemen, the results of the election for the constituency
of Hottentots Holland, he intoned.  Manfred De La Rey, Nationalist
Party: 3,126 votes.  Shasa Courtney, United Party: 2,012 votes.  Claude
Sampson, Independent: 196 votes.  Tara took Shasa's hand and they went
out to where the Packard was parked.  They sat side by side on the front
seat, but Tara did not start the engine immediately. They were both
shaken and confused.

I just cannot believe it, Tara whispered.

I feel as though I am on a runaway train,, Shasa said.

Heading into a long dark tunnel, no means of escape, no way of stopping
it.  He sighed softly.  Poor old South Africa, he murmured. 'God alone
knows what the future holds for you.  Moses Gama was surrounded by men.
The small room with walls of galvanized corrugated iron was packed with
them.

They were his praetorian guard, and Swart Hendrick was chief amongst
them.

The room was lit only by a smoky paraffin lamp, and the yellow flame
highlighted Moses Gama's features.

He is a lion among men, Hendrick thought, reminded again of one of the
old kings, of Chaka or Mzilikazi, those great black elephants. Thus must
they have called the war chiefs to council, thus they must have ordered
the battle.

Even now the hard Boers vaunt their victory across the land, Moses Gama
said.  But I tell you, my children, and I tell you true that below the
leaping flames of their pride and avarice lie the ashes of their own
destruction.  It will not be easy and it may be long. There will be hard
work, bitter hard work and even bloody work, but tomorrow belongs to us.
The new Deputy Minister of Justice left his office and went down the
long corridor in the Union Buildings, that massive fortresslike complex
designed and built by Sir Herbert Baker on a low kopje overlooking the
city of Pretoria.  It was the administrative headquarters of the South
African Government.

Outside it was dark, but there were lights burning in most of the
offices.  All of them were working late.  Taking over the reins of power
was an onerous business, but Manfred De La Rey revelled in every tedious
detail of the task he had been given.  He was sensible of the honour for
which he had been selected.  He was young, some said too young, for the
post of a deputy minister, but he would prove them wrong.

He knocked on the minister's door and opened it to the command, 'Kom
binne, enter!  Charles Robberts Blackie Swart was tall almost to the
point of deformity with huge hands that now lay on the desk top in front
of him.

Manfred.  He smiled like a crack appearing in a granite slab. 'Here is
the little present I promised you.  He picked up an envelope embossed
with the crest of the Union of South Africa and handed it across the
desk.

I will never be able to express my gratitude, Minister.  Manfred took
the envelope.  I hope only to demonstrate it to you by my loyalty and
hard work in the years ahead.  Back in his own office Manfred opened the
envelope and unfolded the document it contained.  Slowly savouring each
word of it, he read through the free pardon granted to one Lothar De La
Rey, convicted of various crimes and sentenced to life imprisonment.

Manfred folded the document and slipped it back into its envelope.

Tomorrow he would deliver the pardon to the prison governor in person,
and he would be there to take his father's hand and lead him out into
the sunshine again.

He stood up and went to his safe, tumbled the combination and swung open
the heavy steel door.  There were three files lying on the top shelf,
and he took them down and laid them on his desk.  One file was from
military intelligence, the second from CID headquarters, the third from
his own Department of justice.  it had taken time and careful planning
to have all three on his desk and all record of their existence removed
from the archive registers.  They were the only existing files on White
Sword'.

He took his time and read each one through carefully.  It was long after
midnight when he finished, but now he knew that nowhere in those files
had any person made the connection between White Sword and Manfred De La
Rey, Olympic gold medallist and now Deputy Minister of justice.

He picked up the three files and carried them through to the outer
office where he switched on the shredding machine.  As he fed each
separate page into the shredder and watched the thin strips of paper
come curling out the far side like spaghetti, he considered what he had
learned from them.

So there was a traitoress, he murmured.  I was betrayed.

A woman, a young woman, speaking in Afrikaans.  She knew everything,
from the guns in Pretoria to the ambush on the mountain. There is only
one young woman who knew all that.  There would be retribution in time,
but Manfred was in no hurry, there were many scores to settle, many
debts to pay.

When the last page of the reports was reduced to minute slivers, Manfred
locked his office and went down to where the new black Ford sedan that
went with his rank was parked.

He drove back to his sumptuous official residence in the elegant suburb
of Waterkloof.  As he went upstairs to the bedroom he was careful not to
wake Heidi.  She was pregnant again, and her sleep was precious.

He lay in the darkness unable to sleep himself.  There was too much to
think about, too much planning to do, and he smiled and thought, So at
last the sword of power is in our hands, and we will see, with a
vengeance, who are the underdogs now.