– 2 –
There had been a little unpleasantness when he had ordered Dirk to stay with the wagons; in consequence Sean was in an evil mood as he crossed the bridge on the Apies and rode into the city the following morning. Beside him Mbejane ran to keep pace with his horse.
Deep in his own thoughts Sean turned into Church Street before he noticed the unusual activity about him. A column of horsemen forced him to rein his horse to the side of the road. As they passed Sean examined them with interest.
Burghers in a motley of homespun and store clothes, riding in a formation which might imaginatively have been called a column of fours. But what excited Sean’s curiosity was their numbers – By God! there must be two thousand of them at least, from lads to greybeards each of them was festooned with bandoliers of ammunition and beside each left knee the butt of a bolt-action Mauser rifle stuck up from its scabbard. Blanket-rolls tied to the saddles, canteens and cooking-pots clattering, they filed past. There was no doubting it. This was a war commando.
From the sidewalk women and a few men called comment at them.
‘Geluk hoor! Shoot straight.’
‘Spoedige terugkoms.’
And the commandos laughed and shouted back. Sean stooped to a pretty girl who stood beside his horse. She was waving a red scarf and suddenly Sean saw that though she smiled her eyelashes were loaded with tears like dew on a blade of grass.
‘Where are they going?’ Sean raised his voice above the uproar.
She lifted her head and the movement loosed a tear; it dropped down her cheek, slid from her chin and left a tiny damp spot on her blouse.
‘To the train, of course.’
‘The train? Which train?’
‘Look, here come the guns.’
In consternation Sean looked up as the guns rumbled past, two of them. Uniformed gunners in blue, frogged with gold, sitting stiffly to attention on the carriages, the horses leaning forward against the immense weight of the guns. Tall wheels shod with steel, bronze glittering on the breeches in contrast to the sombre grey of the barrels.
‘My God!’ breathed Sean. Then turning back to the girl he grasped her shoulder and shook it in his agitation. ‘Where are they going? Tell me quickly – where?’
‘Menheer!’ She bridled at his touch and wriggled away from it.
‘Please. I’m sorry – you must tell me.’ Sean called after her as she disappeared into the crowd.
A minute longer Sean sat stupefied, then his brain began to work again.
It was war, then. But where and against whom?
Surely no tribal rising would call out this array of strength. Those guns were the most modern weapons Sean could conceive.
No, this was a white man’s war.
Against the Orange Republic? Impossible, they were brothers.
Against the British, then? The idea appalled him. And yet – and yet five years ago there had been rumours. It had happened before. He remembered 1895, and the Jameson Raid. Anything could have happened during the years he had been cut off from civilization – and now he had stumbled innocently into the midst of it.
Quickly he considered his own position. He was British. Born in Natal under the union Jack. He looked like a burgher, spoke like one, rode like one, he was born in Africa and had never left it – but technically he was just as much an Englishman as if he had been born within sound of Bow bells.
Just supposing it was war between the Republic and Britain, and just supposing the Boers caught him – what would they do with him?
Confiscate his wagons and his ivory certainly, throw him into prison perhaps, shoot him as a spy possibly!
‘I’ve got to get the hell out of here,’ he mumbled, and then to Mbejane, ‘Come on. Back to the wagons, quickly.’ Before they reached the bridge he changed his mind. He had to learn with certainty what was happening. There was one person he could go to, and he must take the risk.
‘Mbejane, go back to the camp. Find Nkosizana Dirk and keep him there – even if you have to tie him. Speak to no man and, as you value your life, let Dirk speak with no man. It is understood?’
‘It is understood, Nkosi.’
And Sean, to all appearances another burgher among thousands of burghers, worked his way slowly through the crowds and the press of wagons towards a general dealer’s store at the top end of the town near the railway station.
Since Sean had last seen it the sign above the entrance had been freshly painted in red and gold. ‘I. Goldberg. Importer & Exporter, Dealing in Mining Machinery, Merchant & Wholesaler, Purchasing Agent: gold, precious stones, hides and skins, ivory and natural produce.’
Despite this war, or because of it, Mr Goldberg’s emporium was doing good business. It was crowded and Sean drifted unnoticed among the customers, searching quietly for the proprietor.